
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap. _. Copyright No, 

m?/ 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



Purely Original Verse. 



COMPLETE WORKS, 



AND A Number of New Peoductions, 
IN ONE Volume. 



BY 



/o 



J. GORDON COOGLER, 

Columbia, S. C. 



Revised, Illustrated and Published by the Author. 



Price $1.00. By Mail, post-paid, $1.10. 



1897. . 



'0 Xf^^'' 




U^M-b O ^ ^ V 



2055 




/-AXX^^^--%tS^.^K^ 






The Author's Early Home near Columbia. 



Farewell, sweet home of my childhood hours! 

Where joy and sorrow were blended; 
Within thy halls I have loved and lost, 

But now those scenes are ended. 

[Page 43.3 



CONTENTS. 



The path to Fame - . . 85 

Impossible . . . '* 

Woman's Folly .... 36 

Ah, Daisy . . . . • .37 

Some Day . . . - . . " 

Sing on gentle Muse . . . 38 

Mysterious Tear ....'* 

Destroy it not , . . . 39 

Alas! Carolina! ..." 

They laid her down in a lonely Grave . 40 
A Crystalized Rose . . 41 

In Remembrance . . . 42 

When she is gone ..." 

Farewell, sweet Home! . . 43 

More care for the Neck than the Intellect " 
Unsteady I stand . . ,44 

Other Days . . . . 45 

Farewell, Sweet Summer . . " 

Farewell, Lilian * . . 46 

She fell like a flake of Snow . . 47 

Keep silent, Hand . . .48 

So-called Friendship . . . " 

Pretty Miss Lou . . .49 

I wish I was There . . .50 

The Working G-irl . . * 51 

A gloomy Picture . ... 

To Laura . . . .52 

Tiie Mind . . . . " 

Maud, the Mill and the Lily . . 53 

How strangely Dark . . . 59 

An Outcast Pearl ... 59 

Yovi'll never See it . . .61 

Devotion . . . . '• 

Hope, sweet Hope . . .62 

The Midnight Hour . . 63 

'•Thro' Storm on Eirth to Peace in Heaven" 61 
Hail, thou Qaeen, Atlanta . . 66 

Can you blame Me? ... 67 

How Sweet . . . . •• 

Few would Return . . , .68 

I dislike a Vain and Haughty Man . (y 

Live honest, be Kind . . . " 

The Days of my Youth . . , 70 

On the death of Edgar W. Nye . . 71 



CONTENTS 



Unforgiven — Adieu ! . . . 72 

Christ on Calvary ... 75 

When we were Young . . .76 

To one who is all Loveliness . . 77 

Farewell for a time . . . '* 

Farewell, Sweet College Girl , , 78 

Marriage and Death ... 

Side by side, Some Day . . 79 

She's 111 . . . . ; '' 

1 cannot think that I'll he lost Forever 80 

To Amy 

South Carolina ... 82 

To the young Unjust Critic , . m 

Columbia, . . . . " 

We part To-night . (^ That rose) 81 

A Violet and a Jonquil . . 85 

The Past ....•• 

To Miss Mattie Sue . . . 8(> 

The Deceiver 

1 love thy Shades . . .87 

To a Vain Mortal . . . •• 

My Lassie and 1 , . .88 

The Grave where a Woman lies . 8,) 

Beside Life's Ocean . . . vn) 

'Tis better this hand was Silent 
A Tree of varied Fruits and Buds . 91 

Where Vanity puifs the Heart 
Conceited . . . .92 

The first ray of Hope (Ingratitude-) 
The Coming Bard (Autumn) . 9iJ 

The Past— Turn the Page. (On to Eternity) 94 
From the Palace to the Woodland (The Dude)95 
The Lover's return on a Bicycle . 9(5 

How deep the Mystery . . luiJ 

On the Banks of the Congaree . , 104 

The cause of Anothei's Woe la7 

A lovely Woman s (xlance . 

Cold in Death . . . 108 

To Helen .... 109 

Kula and Eunita, the two Orphans . 110 

A Different Tide (To Marian) . 112 

My own World . . . IVi 

Thou old Hypocrite (Woman's Love) 114 
To my Mother . . 11") 

One who would Linger (Oh,. Jealous Heart) "■ 
Perhaps . . . llrt 

More Costly than a Diamond Ring . 117 

Solitude ..... 



CONTENTS. 



Memorial day in Columbia . , 118 

Man's Life . . , . " 

How strange are Dreams (Dissipation) 119 

Carrier's Address (Little Ethel W.) 120 

The Death of Charles A. Dana . 122 

My Country (Woman) . " 

Byron (My lovely Venus) (My Country) 123 

Close by her Bosom ... 124 

Two Loved ones in Heaven . . 125 

A Broken Tie ... . 126 

Just simply grand . . 127 

Footprints by the Mill . . - 128 

Farewell to those Moments - - 181 

Hills, Roads, a Valley and a Fountain . 182 

The Autumn Leaves (Worldly Pleasure) 184 

False, Ungrateful, Unkind . . 185 
In the Wilds of my Soul . . 

Twilight on the Farm . . . 186 

P— D. andB— E. . . •. " 

Reposing (A Mistake) . . 187 
Poor Fellow, he's Dead . . ,188 

Annie, the Mocking-Bird . . " 

There's Bliss for you (Alone) . 18'j 

In Memorial Childhood Scenes ■ " 

The Mem_ory bf thy Face . . . 140 

There'll be my Tomb . . 141 

Our Final Home. Farewell . 142 

To my Mother. A Mustachless Bard 148 

May all these be thine, Mayme . . 144 

'Tis Hard to be happy . . . 145 
To the paor Young Man 

An Empty Vase . . . 116 

Beware of your Character . . . 147 

Circumstances . . . . •• 

Memory's Picture . . . 1^8 

A Monument of Love . . . •' 

Not Satisfied • . . . Ii9 

Remembered Smiles . . . 1"H) 

Lydie's sweet dark Eyes . , . " 

Tread Softly. Written for an Album 1")2 

No Autumn in the Heart. A pretty Grirl 15,> 

Some Day. 'Tis of Thee ttiat I think 1)4 

TiiatRedHat. Young Manhood 155 

A Golden-haired Girl. But few Virtues 156 

A Gracious Friend. . Vocal Music 157 

Alone at Midnight on the Congaree . l."8 

Don't wound Her Feelings . . . •• 

Passing Away . I'll only think of Thee 15<» 



CONTENTS 



Thinking of Thee. Sleep, sweet Child 1(50 

To Lydie. . . The cup of Sorrow 161 

She's yery Dear to Me. . . Tears 162 

To Eleanore. . Pull off those Suspenders 163 

Thy Mother's Love. . Departed Hope. 161 
The Bible. . . Mattie . .165 

A Fallen Women. Death True friendship 166 

To a Dear One on the Other Shore . 167 

On the Death of Mr. J. H. W. . . . 168 
Yours not Mine ....'• 
To a Friend. . . . .170 
This Lock of Hair in my Watoh 

Her Heart is my Cottage . . 171 

Once, and Only ... . " 

The White Head's Farewell to Time . 172 

You Critics . . . . *■ 

Think of Me. . A Mother's L')ve 173 

The Grave of the Past . . . 174 

Not till Then . . , . 175 

Beside the Brook .... 176 

The Sweetest Rose . . . 179 

Alice on Her Bike . . . . 180 

'•Let me Lose" .... 181 
Beyond the Garden Wall ... .182 

That Group of Sweet Singers . . 181 

Farewell, Sweet Rose . . 185 

You Domestic Critics . . . •• 

That Little Brown-Eyed Lady . . 186 

That Upper Western Room . . 187 

A Green Isle of Rest . . . 188 

Sleeping 'Neath the Violets . . 189 

Isn't this Bliss . . . •• 

A Reply to a Valentine .... 190 

A Sweet Object. . Endurance . 191 
A Snow-Covered Earth. .... 

To Fair Nina . . . . . 192 

To Dora. . . A Wish . 193 

To Florence, Lily and Nonie . . 194 

A Wish ... . . - 



INTRODUCTION. 

Having been very successful in the past with my poetical 
works, it gives me pleasure to place in the hands of an ap- 
preciative public this volume containing my entire works, 
(consisting of five volumes) revised, with many of my latest 
unpublished productions. 

I have been very much gratified at the appreciation 
shown my works in the past. The many lengthy and com- 
plimentary magazine and newspaper editorial reviews ac- 
corded my works throughout this entire country, have 
stimulated me to no little extent, and assured me of the 
success of this volume. I desire to tender to them my 
thanks and appreciation for their kind treatment of same. 

I have given each poem in this volume my profound at- 
tention. Have consumed much midnight oil in trying to 
do justice to the subjects which lay nearest to my heart and 
inspired me to write. 

I have disposed of more than 2,800 copies of my five small 
volumes. They have been in demand iiot only in the South, 
but throughout the North. 

In presenting this volume I shall repeat the words con- 
tained in the introduction of my former ones: '*My style 
and my sentiments are my own, purely original." 

I shall not attempt to quote all of the many lengthy re- 
views given my past works by the press at large — or the 
numerous complimentary letters received from literary per- 



sons throughout the country— as they Would more than fill 
this volume. I shall give only a few extracts from some of 
the leading periodicals, , beginning witli ''Munsey's Maga- 
zine," October, 1896. Their review I shall give in full as 
follows : 

**J. (j;ORDON OOOGLER, POET LAUREATE. 

"It is with no little confidence that we submit to an appreciating pub- 
lic the name of J. Gordon Ooogier, the Sweet Singer of South Carolina, 
as a candidate for the position of Aniex'ican poet laureate. That the 
Tnited States liave never yet been able to boast an officially recognized 
national bard lias seemed to us a mutter for regret. Tlie time seems ripe 
for tlie conferring of such an lionor, and we Itnow of no one upon whom 
it can more justly be bestowed than upon Mr. Ooogier. As yet but little 
is Ivnown of this poet who is wasting his sweetness upon the desert air, 
but it will be unnecessary to do more tlian direct attention to his work 
to secure for him the reputation which lie deserves. 

His latest volume of poems is four inches wide by live and tliree quar- 
ter inches long and one quarter inch thick; it is bound in blue paper, 
and printed by the author; and we are informed by the introduction 
that it is the fourth of a series, completing more than four hundred com- 
positions. We shall never cease to reproach ourselves for not having 
))( come familiar with Mr. Ooogler's work before. His poems are of thft 
lyrical order and display a marked ability in the matter of rhyme, tem- 
pered with a pleasing pessimism. As he says in his preface, 'My style 
and my sentiments are my own, purely original, I have lx)rrowed no 
words intentionally from any author.' One ha^ only to read these verse?< 
to 1m» convinced that this elaim is absolutely accurate. The lauveatf^ 
thus addresses his critics : 

"'Challenge me to fight on the open field, 
And hurl at m^' head the fiery dart, 
Rather than belittle the gentle muse 
That ushers from this lonely heart, 

"'It must indeed ])e a captious reviewer who cannot frankly admins 
the charming simplicity and pastoral beauty of Mr, Coogler's poetry. 
Witness what may be done in the way of rhyming if "one has only the 



divine afflatus, and witness also the peculiar pathos of the thought: 

'•From early youth to the frost of age 
Man's days have been a mixture 
Of all that constitutes in life 
A dark and gloomy picture. 

"Good as this is, however, it is not in philosophical quatrains that the 
poet reaches his highest level, but rather in lyrics that deal with the 
tender passion. In the poem entitled "To Miss Mattie Sue' we have a use 
of the verb 'do' wliich commands immediate attention : 

"As the summer sunbeams 
Peep o'er the distant hills 

On some sweet and lonely brook, 
So my weary, longing eyes. 
Warm with the dew of love, 

To thee alone do look. 

"On thy rosebud cheeks 
Girlhood's sweetest smiles 
In brightest hope do beam. 

"And here is a combination of grammar, morality, and melody equally 
noticeable : 

"On thy fair finger, lovely maiden, 
Let there no jewel ever be 
If character be put at stake 
For the diamond ring he gives thee. 

"Further extracts are perhaps unnecessary. We consider that those 
we have made are abundantly sufficient to support J. Gordon Coogler's 
candidacy for the title of American laureate. There have been natiA'e 
p )ets deserA^ng of recognition. Longfellow, Whittier, Bryant, Holmes, 
L )vell — all these did fair work, 'but they have passed from our midst.' 
Where are we to look for one who shall celebrate American love, morals, 
and patriotism? There is but one answer to the question. J. Gordon 
C )ogler, of Columbia, South G irolLna, is alone worthy of being crowned 
with wreaths of bay. What his futvire is to be is best expressed in his 
own words (never borrowed 'intentionally from any author) : 

"On every hill top. far and near. 
He'll sing that sinful hearts might hear 

Ilis sweet refrain; 
All men will bow before his face. 
Whose winning smiles and perfect grace, 

Will dispel all pain !" 



8 

Extracts from a page of editorial review of my third 
volume, contained in *'Puciv,'^ Nov. 7, 18.94, entitled, 

*'THE GENIUS OF OOOGLER. 
••We have received a little volume entitled 'Poems by J. Gordon Coog- 
ler. Columbia, S(mth Garalina,' with a request from the author to 'please 
notice.' Book reviews are not in our line, but a careful study of these 
poems has convinced us that their gifted author is really in need of some 
fearless criticism, and he shall have it. Although we may be frank to the 
verge of severity, it must be understood that we have no wish to belittle 
the und(mbted genius of Mr. Ooogler. Rather would we indicate seem- 
lier angles and free it from what we feel sure is a taint of insincerity. 
* * * * 

'•We repeat, that we do not wish to be needlessly harsh with Mr. Goog- 
ler. naught but a stern sense of justice and the conviction tliat we maybe 

of use to him x^rompts us toscore him Here, for instance, is the 

influence of the improper Mr. Swinburne: 

*'! couldn't but love her snowy neck, 
In beauty grand without a speck 

Or trace at all ; 
And looking then at her pretty feet, 
I praised that lower gift complete 

And veiy small. 

'■Like the leaves of the summer rose 
Were her pink cheeks and pretty nose, 
Just simply grand. 
*'And again : 

'Many a Sabbath hour I've spent 
With Maud beside my knee, 
Gazing o'er the distant hills 
On the banks of the Gongaree, 

*'Many a balmy kiss I've stolen 

From preci(ms lips too pure forme, 
While caressing lovely little Maud 
On the ])anksof the Gongaree, 

*'We will not say that the tone of these verses is ininioi'al, but .surely 
it is not elevating and ennobling. It is too Suggestive. 

"Here are some detached bits that show unmistakably the baneful 
domination of Robert Browning; 

"'I feel like some lone deserted lac! 

Standing on tlie shore of life's great (Krean, 
Casting i>el)hles in its billows, 
As if to excite some past emotion. 



"There's nothing in life to live for, 
Except it be sorrow and pain ; 
But there's more in death than dying 
To simply exist again. 

**It is in his poems dealing with death that Mr. C jogler strikes his 
truest note. Here Is a fragment from 'Two Loved Ones in Heaven ;■ writ- 
ten on the death of two lovely girls who passed away a short time since 
in this city.' : 

'* Their days were too few to be ended so soon 
By death's cold hand ere the fullness of noon ; 
And e'en tho' fever was burning their cheek 
Of their heavenly home they did frequently speak. 
* * * * 

''Wretched taste we think is shown in S )me 'Lines to Byron.' : 

•'Oh, thou immortal Byron, 
Thy grand, inspired genius 

Let no man dare to smother; 
May all that was good within thee 
Be attributed to heaven ; 
All that was evil— to thy mother. 

•'Byron'g mother may not have been an admirable woman ; she may 
have had the gravest of faults, but she died many years ago, and we pro- 
test that J. Gordon Ooogler has no right to rake up any old scandal about 
her. especially in an ode to her talented son. Let the dead past, we say, 
bury its dead. Let us not, Mr. Coogler, be cruel and vindictive toward 
one who, whatever her failings, Avas once a woman. Remember your 
own 'Lines to Woman,' on p. 57: 

'•Oh. that inexhaustible subject 
Filled with celestial fire 
On which no seraph's song can cease. 
No poet's pen exijire. 

*'Many of his verses hint at a past eventful with grave transgressions: 

'•Tliere was a time Avhen the Are of youth 
Burned deep within my wayward soul ; 
I often stroll'd o'er pleasant hills 
Where timid mortals seldom stroll. 

'•Here and there is indicated an almost offensive vein of frivolity; bufc 
this is more than atoned for by a spirit of manliness which is admirably 
shown in tlie following: 

"A MISTAKE. 

''The poem containing three verses, published in my second book, and 
entitled -That Christmas Card,' are the only verses in my life which I 



10 

regret ever having written. The entire p">em is a mistake, caused hy 
being too hasty. 

'•I would willingly forfeit mv right to the Muse 
If I only this day could recall 
The verses I wrote in the heat of my pission, 
Which I c )nsider the meanest of all. 

"A minly and c3urageous amende, Mr. C)ogler; you are the better 
for having mide it. 

'•As a frontispiece to liis little volume, Mr. Coogler prints a tasteful, 
half-tone engraving of himself. He is a fine, manly-looking young fel- 
low of some twenty-nine or thirty, with a broad, high forehead, earnest 
deep-set eyes, prominent ears, and a small dark mustache. He is dressed 
in a neit, well-litting suit of some dark shade. Of the quality of Mr. 
Coogler's verse, we p.*efer not to sp^ak. As he says his stj-le and his 
S'-^ntiments are his own; and who are we that we should say them well 
or ill?" 



Extracts from nearly a page of editorial review of iriy 
fourth volume in the ''Litekary Digest/' (N. Y.,) Nov. 2, 
1895 : 

''SOME PURELY ORIGINAL VERSE. 

'•Such are the 'p:>ems' of J. Gjrdon C )ogler, of C )lumbia, S. C. whose 
new book, being his fourth volumo, has just reached us. In his 'Intro- 
duction,' Mr. Cjogler says: 'In issuing this volume I shall repeat the 
words contained in the introduction in my last volume: My style and 
my sentiments are my own, purely original.' We doubt if any one will 
question the truth of Mr. )ogler's strongly emphasized assertion. We 
admit tliat in the few choice extracts which we here ])resent there is 
something which calls to mind, in a way, certain Of the masters, but 
there is no sign of imitation. One cannot help thinking how Dr. Holmes 
or Mr. Lowell would liave revelled in these rich stanzas, without ever 
accusing the autlior of plagiarizing their own or any other poet's lines. 

"Mr. C )ogler will doubtless have his adverse critics, as all poets have. 
Indeed, he lias anticipited such in tlie following lines: 

'•TO THE YOUNG UNJUST CRITIC. 

"Challenge me to fight on tlie oprMi field, 
And hurl at my head the fiery dart, 
Rather than belittle the gentle muse 
That ushers from this lonely heart. . 



11 



"Mr. Coogler cannot properly be called an cptimist, for lie has written 
the saddest kind of verse, yet he occasionally trills a merry lay, such as 
'On the Cars to Shandon.' And by tlie way he has in this dainty madri- 
gal entered quite a new field of song, It has been prophesied that the 
poetry of the future would treat on scientific themes; here we have it. 
* * * * 

*'Tlie poet's deep earnestness of purpose is expressed in this quatrain: 

" 'Tis better this hand Avas silent^ 
This mind obscure and weak, 
Than it should pen a single line 
These lips would dare not speak. 

"And the following sliows to wliat lofty height of diction his muse is 
OapLible of soaring: 

"Oh, character! thou ever art 
An holy and an honor' d tiling ; 
More valuable than life itself, 
More costly than a diamond ring." 



*'Thb Bookman,'^ of New York, in nearly a column of 
review of my tifth volume, says : 

"We Avere going to write quite a lengthy review of this inimitable little 
volume ; but tlie author has made such a tiling practically impossible by 
reprinting in the Introduction a collection of the comment and com- 
mendations already bestowed upon his verse by the most eminent critics 
from Bill Nye to the literary editor of Munsey's. These comments so per- 
fectly anticipate all we should ourselves have said as to make it need- 
less for us to do more than subscribe to them as expressing our senti- 
ments exactly 

"We trust that this fifth volume of his verse may have many success- 
ors ; and we are pretty sure it will, for a little poem we cull from page £8, 
is fraught with golden promise for the future : 

"You may as Avell try to change the course 
Of yonder sun 

To north and south, 
As to try to subdue by criticism 
This heart of verse, 

Or close this mouth/' 



12 

Extracts from three pages of editorial review in "The 
Nickel Magazine," Boston, Mass., May, 1S97, entitled, 

-A GENIUS IN BLOOM. 

"It is much the fashion nowadays to be loftily impatient with Ameri- 
can poets. Indeed one hears from those who should know better that 
America has no poet worthy of the name. But how insipidly conven- 
tional, how ignobly sux)"rficial is the dictum! For America has poets 
in abundance who sing potently in all the voices; but too often they 
charm only a small circle, and are tricked by circumstance out of that 
larger audience to which their genius and acquirements entitle them. 
Steadfast in their ideals and constant in effort, they reck little of wide 
fame or material rewards; they sing their lyrics and declaim their 
epics, and the world may stop to listen if it will. If it will not— and too 
often it does not— then the world, not the poet, is the loser. As a fine 
typp of these humbler bards, humble in pretension, not in achie\Tment, 
Ave present the name of J. Gordon Coogler. of Columbia, S. C. His fifth 
and latest volume of poems has just come to us. and after reading it, we 
hasten to do our little toward dispelling the obscurity with which a per- 
verse fate has hitherto shrouded this genius of the Southland. Mr. 
Coogler. it appears, is both a poet and a practical printer. As a critic, 
wliom he quotes in the introduction to tlie present volume, remarks: 
'None other can conduct his muse all tlie way from the frowning heights 
of Olympus to the tender clasp of a half-medium job press.' Unique in 
this twinship. the poet is his own publisher, and that modesty which is 
one of his salient attributes, has prompted him to put out all five of his 
volumes in unassuming paper linding. The latest is entith'd 'Purely 
Original Verse.' In truth . originality wcmld appear to be a hobby with him 
if so transcendent a genius may be supposed to possess a thing so common. 
'My style and my sentiments are my own, purely original,' he insists 
furtlier; and an examination of his work i)roves this to be no idle boast. 
To sense the full swee]) of his power, it may be well to glance at some of 
his earlier work before considering his latest. One is much struck first 
by the spirit of intrepid, nay, alm( st aggressive defiance, an ith which he 
dares the horde of unappreciative critics: 

"Challenge me to fight on the o])(M1 fi(^ld, 

And hurl at my h<>ad tlie fiery dart, 

Ratlier than belittle tlie gentle m\ise . 

That ushers from this lonely lu^art. 



IS 

*'Next we are permitted to discover a not unpleasing pessimism joined 
to a facility of rhyme that is truly impressive : 

*'From early youth to the frost of age 
Man's days have been a mixture 
Of all that constitutes in life 
A dark and gloomy picture. 

'•In his adaptation of certain verbs Coogler is both masterly and origi- 
nal. 

* * * * 

But it is not alone in grammar that Coogler blazes new paths. In that 
species of analysis which is part metaphysics and part sentiment, a line 
which Robert Browning essayed with fairly creditable results, Coogler 
is especially happy, as in the following quotation : 

"I feel like some lone, deserted lad 

Standing on the shore of life's great ocean, 
Casting pebbles in its billows. 
As if to excite some past emotion. 

* * * 

"Coogler'S later volume contrasts pleasantly with his earlier works. 
It is riper and more mature. While he consistantly preserves those quaint 
gramatical involutions and twists, he sees with clearer eyes, and pic- 
tures with a firmer touch the great arcana of humanity. In 'The Path 
to Fame,' the fi] st poem of this volume, he again sounds his note of defi- 
ance to the critics, yet it has a gentler resonance than his earlier chal- 
lenge : 

"The clouds may be dark that linger around 
Tiiese feet as they move in that lone sphere, 

And the thorns be many to pierce my heart. 
Yet 'mid all these I've nothing to fear. 

"Let critics assail my innocent muse, 
And belittle the name which they ne'er can mar, 

Yet both shall shine from the hills of fame 
Like the radiant light of some sweet star. 

"While a deep-hued pessimism may be thought to color this volume, 
it is still far from morbid. Thus, in 'They Laid Her Down in a Lonely 
Grave,' the sadness of the theme is mitigated by a perception of the laws 
of nature which is both rational and reassuring : 

"They laid her down while the autumn leaves were falling. 

In a lonely grave beside the deep blue sea ; 
Her angel spirit is now beyond recalling. 

And her fair form can ne'er revisit you and me, 



18 

"Is it any wonder that South Carolina's poet is able to sell 2.000 copies 
of his "purely original" verse at 50 cents a copy and then write more ?" 

Extracts from over a column of editorial review of my 
works in ''The Providence (R. I.) Journal": 

"Genius will out. Even the seclusion Of Columbia, S. C, cannot hide 
it. Mr. J. Gordon Coogler has issued four volumes of poetry, and has 
had the honor of long reviews from Puck and other serious organs of 
criticism, and yet we have waited for his fifth volume to make his ac- 
quaintance. The loss is ours and we hasten to repair it, assuring our 
readers with the utmost earnestness of which we are capable that a new 
fount of the purest literary delight awaits them in the pages of the mod- 
est paper-covered book, which the author has sent us with the request, 
'Please notice.' Who could fail to notice a new note in the poetry of 
the time so penetrating as Coogler s? If he sang on some lone isle in the 
Pacific he would make himself heard. 

***** 

"There is naturally much about the fair sex in this little volume; the 
great poetic heart has ever a keen longing to love and to be loved. Lines 
to 'A Golden Haired Girl,' to one whose 'gentle name was Maud,' 'To 
Lilian.' lines 'written on hearing a lady, speaking of her past hopes, 
say, 'lam now on the verge of womanhood; only eighteen summers old; 
but, oh, how unsteady I stand'— things like these cannot be found in 
ordinary volumes of verse. One of the poems which has interested us 
most gives a charming picture of social life in the fair Southern city. 
From the beginning— 

"Down beside a clump of roses. 

Just beyond the garden wall, 
Sat a little brown-eyed maiden, 

Waiting for her beau to call. 

'Through the passionate longing of the heroine for the hero's arrival— 

"Oh. I hear his footsteps coming, 

See the light of his cigar. 
How it shines within the darkness 
Like some softly glowing star. 
***** 
"But Mr. Coogler does not confine himself to the fair ones who move 
high in social circles. *Sweet working girl,' he cries: 



n 

"I love to view the happy srdilps 
Upon tliy fair and beaming face. 

"And then he adds this word of encouragement : 

'* Sweet working girl— tho' Fate has destined thy fair hand 

To labor in place of a wayward brother, 
Yet Heaven will reward thee for thy honest toil 

In support of thy aged, widow'd mother. 

H< * * i: * 

"We must stop somewhere, fascinating as Mr. Coogler's volume is. 
And we Sh ill stop without a word of comment. Why gild refined gold 
or i>aint t:i3 lily ?'* 



Extracts from editorials in '^ThB (N. Y.) Sun^' : 

"Our esteemed contemporary, the 'Carolina Spartan' imparts the glad 
hews that J. Gordon Ooogler, the poet laureate of Columbia, has pub- 
lished the fifth volume of his poems. J. Gordon Ooogler, as his admirer 
Well remarks is 'bold enough to attempt flights heretofore unessayed, 
and he writes verse as no other man has ever written.' The country 

owes much to J^ Gordon Ooogler No cotton is softer or gentler 

than are his Arcadian songs. J. Gordon Ooogler has often been called 
the Sir Edward Arnold of Columbia." 

Again ''The Sun" says : 

"J. Gordon )ogler of Columbia, the great bard of the Palmetto State, 
Is described by our contemporary, the 'Galveston News/ 'aS having a 
line mouth) a set to either jaw that indicates great physical firmness, 
the eye of an eagle, the nose of a Roman.' This is not meant to be un- 
just, but it is not entirely exact. Mr. J. Gordon Ooogler has the eye of 
a falcon rather than that of the eagle, the nose of a i)elasgian, the mouth 
of a nightingale, the chin of a lark, and his jaw is melodious like a harp 
in flesh. His sentiments are as sound and his conjugations are as origi- 
nal as his lineaments are imposing. Who except Ooogler is capable of 
singing: 

"On thy fair finger, lovely maiden, 

Let there no jewel ever be 
If character be put at stake 
For the diamond ring he gives tliee." 

And again *'The Sun" says : 

"Mr. J. Gordon Ooogler, tlie sweet singer of the South Carolina cotton 



16 

The "Chap Book," of Chicago, Til., in quite a lengthy re- 
view of my fifth volume, says : 

" 'Impossible,' is the title of Mr. J. Gordon Coogler's apt poem, big with 

undiluted truth. 

* * * * 

"But it is after all to some of Mr. Coogler's five volumes that the illu- 
minati have been, . . accustomed to turn for diversion. He takes for 
his theme, 'Maud, the Mill, and the Lily,' and the following stanza re- 
sults ; 

"There flows the same familiar stream, 

Whose waters I oft have drank ; 
And the old mill-pond, from whose dark edge 
I oft, so oft have shrank. 

"Or says, 'Farewell Sweet College Grirl!' thus: 

"Farewell ! ye milk-white dove, farewell ! 

If on earth we meet no more, 
May in that snow-white throng of love 

We meet on yonder shore. 

"But it is not alone in the young woman of grace and culture that the 
poet sees a suitable theme : witness his lines to 'The Working Grirl i 

"Sweet working girl — tho' Fate has destined thy fair hand 

To labor in place of a wayward brother. 
Yet Heaven will reward thee for thy honest toil 

In support of thy aged, widowed mother."' 



Extracts from nearly a column of editorial review of my 
works in the ^'Cleveland (Ohio) World": 

"SOUTH CAROLINA'S POET. 

"We beg leave to acknowledge a volume of poems by J. Gordon Coog- 
ler, the poet laureate of South Carolina. Mr. Coogler not only writes 
his own poems, but he sets them into tyi>e and sees that they are prop- 
erly printed in his own printing office. His home is at Columbia, South 
Carolina, and this is the fifth volume of his poetic efforts he has given to 
the public 

"The econiunis of praise that have been heaped upon Mr. Coogler by 



17 

the press of the country have been most flattering, to him, and highly- 
enjoyable to everybody else. 

"Mr. Ooogler's style is certainly simple, and not bound down by any 
iron ciad rales of prosody or meter. The rapturous beauty of the senti- 
ment which is 'purely original' oozes forth from the almost inspired 
words of this poet of South Carolina. What can be more delicate in its 
simplicity, deep iti its moral, or charm.ing in its whole conception than 
the following entitled ''Woman's Folly.' : 

"Alas ! poor woman , with eyes of sparkling fire, 
Thy heart is often won by mankind's gay attire ; 
So weak thou art, so very weak at best, 
Thou canst not look beyond a satin-lined vest. 

"I've seen thee ofttimes cast a winning glance 
And be carried away — as it were within a trance- 
By the gay apparel of some dishonest youth, 
Whose bosom heaved with not a single truth. 

"Alas! for thee — I would that thou couldst learn 

That love does not in such quicksilver burn ; 

That he who lurks beside thy virtuous path. 

When thy good name is gone, will gaze on thee and laugh. 

"For what care he, whom thy fair hand would take, 
If in after years thy gentle heart should break ; 
No tears of remorse would damp his wayward eyes — 
Such tears can only come ere the conscience dies. 

"It is our regret that it is not possible to give many examples of Mr. 
Coogler's poetry, bat space does not permit. Yet one more sample might 
well be included. It is made up of two stanzas of a poem entitled, 'Tlie 
Path to Fame,' and indicates that Mr. Coogler is adamant to the shafts 
of criticism if any should perchance be aimed in his direction : 

"Let criTics assail my innocent muse. 

And belittle the name wliich tliey ne'er can mar, 
Yet both shall shine from the hills of fame 

Like the radiant liglit of some sv/eet star. 

"Tho' the course I have taken be lonely and dark, 

Pitied, condemned, by one and by all ; 
Yet the star of ambition is gloAving for me. 

The' I stumble alas! I ne'er shall fall. 



14 

"To him-has come in these ripor years a tolerant appreciation of the 
virtues and failings of tlie Eternal Feminine : 

'•Some day, wlien tlie gloomy shades of life shall liave borne 
The golden sunbeams from 'round your gentle feet, 

Then you will think of tlie love wliich you have spurn'd 
On my liearts pare shrine so gentle and so sweet. 
* * * * 

'•In 'Woman's Folly' lie scathingly yet Justly rebukes her for that she 
judges man too often by his raiment : 

"Alas ! poor woman, with eyes of sparkling fire, 
Thy heart is often won by mankind's gay attire ; 
So weak thou art, so very weak at best. 
Thou canst not look beyond a satin-lined vest. 

"I've seen thee of ttimes cast a winning glance 
And be carried away— as it were within a trance- 
By the gay apparel of some dishonest youth. 
Whose bosom heaved with not a single truth. 

"How ti*ue it is that woman often neglects to use the X-ray of her God- 
given intuition to pierce the sheen of a specious waistcoat and survey 
the hollowness it hides; and may we not feel a generous sympathy for 
this poet who has, all too plainly, seen time worth passed by for a gaudy 
exterior? But though he is often judicial to the verge of harshness, he 
does not lack a certain winning chivaliy ; 

"G^o shatter the walls of some beautiful city 

That is noted for grandeur and fame, 
Rather than cast a suggestive remark 

To desti^oy a woman's fair name. 

"And again ; 

"She's a polished, noble lady, 

Highly learned, industrious, too^ 
And her sunny hand is faithful 

In what e^er it finds to do, 

"And not infrequently he sliowsfboth ehivaliy and humility i 

"Maud — ^for her gentle name was Maud — 
Wore many smiles, and they were sad; 

A thousand virtues she retained, 
Many of which I never had. 

"But it is where his pen jyunctures social and political bubbles that he 
soars to his loftiest heights. Instance the delicate 8co.rn tinged with 
yearning pity of the following lines: 



15 

"Alas! Carolina! Carolina! fair land of my l:>irth. 

Thy fame will he wafted from the mountain to the sea 
As being the greatest educj^tional centre on earth. 

At the cost of men's, blood thro^ thy 'one X' whiskey. 

"Two very large elephants thou liast lately installed, 
AV here thy sons and thy daughters are invited to come, 

And learn to be mentally and pliysically strong, 
By the solemn proceeds of thy 'innocent' rum, 

"We have tried thus briefly to give some adequate notion of the genius 
of J. Gordon Coogler. His own low-looking, money-grabbing genera- 
tion may not accord him his due; but we are confident that posterity 

will not fail in tliis respect - . 

"Verily, we may say of this master of his OAvn peculiar style, in clos- 
ing this all- too- inadequate review of liis works: 
"Oh ! worthy, worthy Bard! 

Of loftiest melody the puissant bugler! 
We've much to cheer us e'en ttio' times be bad, 
While our literary pantheon contains a Coogler.'* 



"GoDEY's Magazine," (that 'Edinburgh^ of the present 
time) delights in condemning the work of young authors,, 
as 'belonging to the class which neither gods nor men are 
said to permit^ For variety's sake, not truth and justice, I 
am glad that it exists, and I can hear from it occasionally. 

Here are a few extracts from nearly a column of review 
It accorded my works : 

"Mr. Coogler lias just about become a national figure in contemporary 
literature 

"Mr. Coogler, like Horace and others, is sublimely assured of his own 
immortality. 

* * * * 

"And yet in the midst of all tliis hopeless banality and ignorance he 
came near writing sometliing very fine in this six-line stanza— an 
undecimal couplet it is really: 

"Ah. Daisy, so lovely in thy gentleness, 
W^ho would not press tliy snowy hand 
Until thy cheeks grew red; 
Who would not live in the balmy breeze 
Tliat gently wafts the silken curls 
On thy angelic head." 



20 

fields, must look to his laurels. Another and a rival poet has appeared 
in Mr, Lewis M. Elshemus, whose native wood notes wild, sounded in 
two volumes entitled respectively, 'Lady Vere,' and 'Mammon — A Spirit 
Song' (Eastman Lewis), have much of the artless and unfettered origi- 
nality that have made the Southern singer famous. We miss, perhaps, 
the infinite variety and range of vision that distinguish the inimitable 
Coogler." 

"The Atlanta Constitution^' says : 

"Editor Dana, of 'The Sun' is an ardent Cooglerite." 



"The Kansas City (Mo.) Times'' says : 

"Some of Mr. Coogler's work has been highly praised by a number of 
critics, and in his last volume he amply proves his poetic temperament. 
A r.u nber of his verses show true poetic expression. The fault with 
many of his verses lies in a hasty composition. From the good verses, 
Mr. Coogler proves that he can write well, so there is little excuse for 
the bad ones." .... 



**The Indianapolis (Indiana) Journal" says : 

"From the Sunny South comes the fifth volume of Mr. J. Gordon 
Coogler's 'Purely Original Verse.' It must indeed be a captious reader 
who could not frankly admire the charming simplicity and pastoral 
beauty of Mr. Coogler's poetry. 



From quite a lengthy review in "The Hartford (Conn.) 
Coukant": 

"The fifth volume of 'Purely Original Verse,' by J. Gordon Coogler of 
Columbia, S. C, is one of those books which lend themselves so readily 
to quotation that it is very difficult to refrain from transcribing whole 
pages. Munsey's Magazine and Puck were unable to resist lengthy edi- 
torial comment. 

* * * * * 

"But we cannot allow ourselves to be led from page to page gatherfng 
blossoms. Suffice it to say that the author has seen life., that he knows 
friendship to be 



•'No Spirit from the heavens. 

Nor the regions of the dead ; 
But a kind of unknown demon 

Manufactured in the head." 



From "The Milwaukep: (Wis.) Journal": 

'•Mr. Coogler's verses remind one of the choice specimens of Mr. Gifted 
Hopkins' muse whicli Dr. Holmes lias given us in 'The Guardian Angel,' 
In his introduction to the little hook, which is the fifth volume of Mr, 
Coogler's work, the poet gratefully acknowledges the many compli- 
mentary notices whicli his previous volumes have received. Extracts 
are given from reviews which have appeared in Puck and other journals. 
Bill Nye is numhered among the admirers of Mr. Coogler who have 
written facetiously and appreciatively of his muse. Among the most 
touching of the poems we may mention: 'Ah, Daisy'; 'Other Days;' 
'Think of Me;' -Willie is Gone;' 'She's 111,' and 'The Mysterious Tear.' 
In spite of the allurements of fame, the poet maintains a hecoming 
modesty of spirit, as the following lines show: 

"If I should rise to lofty heights, 

A humble heart shall be thereon ; 
And though you may be far below. 

Remember, you I shall not scorn." 



Froni over a column of review in "The Pittsburg (Pa.) 
Times": 

'•Here is a poetic outfit to begin with that has scarcely ever been sur- 
passed, and it is not surprising, therefore, that the volume Mr. Coogler 
requests 'The Times' to notice is the fifth that has come from his in- 

s^piredpen. 

* « * * 

••The following stanza which is put in as a 'filler' at the bottom of one 
of the pages expresses the deep and permanent sadness of his great 
mind: 

'•In the deepest recesses of my heart there's a gloom 

Which keeps me eternally sad; 
Yet the smiles of my face and the words of my mouth 
Are always cheerful and glad. 

"That he has a great mind for the play of human emotions is certified 
in the following fragment: 



2*2 

'•The mind that ennnot eremite worlds. 
Make liills and mountains great or small, 

And streams and hikes, and thus the like, 
Is to my mind — no mind at all. 
* * * 

"In spite of his constitutional sadness he sing's much of love ; but it 
is unrequitted love. Notwithstanding his love for women he is sever*^ 
upon their follies, and thus expresses liis condemnation : 

"Alas ! poor woman, with eyes of srnrkling fire. 
Thy heart is often Avon by mankind's gay attire ; 
So weak thou art, so very Aveak at best, 
Thovi canst not look beyond a Siitin-Iined vest. 

"But it would be futile AVitliin the limit of this review to attempt to 
printout all the beautiful notes of this dulcet-voiced singer of Dixie. 
We must leave something for the reader." 



Extracts from a lengthy review in *'The Nkwark (N. J.) 
Advertisek": 

"Love! To AVhat heights of rapture, and abysses of despair does the 
tenderest yet cruelest of passion not raise or plunge tliis honey-lipped 
singer of the Congaree ? : 

"Oh. that inexhaustible .subject 

trilled Avith celestial fire 
On Avhich no seraph song can cease, 
No poet's pen expire. 
* * * * 

"Mr. Coogler's opinions oil subjects on AVhich poet^ have Avfitten be- 
fore, but never as he does are interesting. Here are some of the j>earli3 
of thought he scatters broadcast with prodigal handi 

"Oh, character! thou ever art 

An holy and an hoiior'd thing; 
More valuable than life itself. 

More costly than a diamond ring. 

* :it * * * 

"All heaven has no Avater soft enough, 

Nor earth no cleansing soap. 
That can Avash the crimson from the heart 

That destroys a Avoman's hope. 

♦'Observe how deftly the plainest every-day thing, such as soap, iS 
Woven into the Aveb of verse. Mr. Coogler's range of subjects is as illimi- 
ta])le as the infinite. Versatility is his forte. Now, here, now there, hr 
Keems everywhere at ouce/* 



23 

Extracts from a coUimn of review in "The Louisville 
(Ky.) Courier Journal": 

'•The poets of these degenerate days are, as a rule, a meek, downtrod- 
den lot. whom one may ridicule with impunity. One notable exception, 
however, is J. Gordon Uoogler, of Columl)ia, S. C, the distincton he- 
tAveen him and the general run of singers being so marked as to lead to 
grave doubts as to his being a genuine poet. Would a genuine modern 
po ^t have had the temerity to address such a stanza as this to the critics ? : 

'•Challenge me to fight on the open field, 

And hurl at my head the fiery dart. 
Rather than belittle the gentle muse 

That ushers from this lonely heart. 

'•Yet in this very boldness lies the secret of Mr. Coogler's success. 

:j: :fc * * 

"It is but fair to state that here and there lines of beauty are to be 

found in the work His position is unique. His work has been 

widely read, and has been given more attention by some of the leading 
newspapers and periodicals than that of men of real genius. In so far as 
being known as a writer is concerned, he is famous."' 



"The Minneapolis (Minn,) Journal" in a column of 
review says : 

"•Purely Original Verse,' by a South Carolina poet, J. Gordon Coogler. 
It is really exhilarating to read such a title. What the reading public in 
this country has long been looking for is a new American poet who will 
give them 'purely original verse.' The information is also given that this 
is the fifth volume of Mr. Coogler's poetry. . . . He has disposed of over 
2.000 copies, and adds: 'My style and my sentiments are my own, purely 
original.' And this South Carolina genius does not forget to give us a 
full-page portrait of himself, a young man with dark hair, carefully 
pointed mustache, sitting at a table, his eyes 'with fine frenzy rolling,' 
writing one of his 'purely original poems.' Not only this, but Mr. Coog- 
ler gives a picture of 'the author's early home near Columbia, S. C.,' the 

birth place of this extraordinary genius. 

* * * * * 

'•L^t critics assail my innocent muse. 

And belittle the name which they ne'er can mar. 
Yet both shall shine from the hills of fame 

Like tlie radiant light of some sweet star. 



24 



''This is bumptiuous, If not Iioi'oic; but Mr. Cjoglcr is more positive 
about Ills fame when he says : 

"You may as well tiy to cliange the course 
Of yonder sun 

To north and south, 
As to try to sa])due by criticism 
This lieart of verse. 

Or close this mouth. 
*'WeII, it looks like it, since Mr. Google r has issued Hve volumes of hl^ 
verse. There will be little use to tiy to shut him up. Mr* Ooogler has 
evidently been heels over head in love with the South Carolina maidens, 
for he addresses numerous allusions to them. For instance, in a paem 
to 'Lilian,' he says: 

''Yet the love which you have taught me 

Ne'er shall fade within my brea.^t, 
But shall beam along my journey 

Like a sunbeam from the west. 
* * * * * 

''Mr. Coogler cannot like Keats, be tortued or slain by adverse com- 
m'ent." 



From a lengthy editorial iii "The Atlanta (Ga.) CoN- 
STiTunoN": 

"Our readers have no doubt heard of J. Gordon Coogler, t'le able 
young jjoet, whose pleasing fancies have won for him a fame that is 
unique in this age of cold commercial transactions. There must be 
something in the writings of a man who can attract attention and win 
applause when corn is thirty cents a bushel and potato bugs have be- 
come a burden. 

***** 

"It will be the chief distinction of those who gird at J. Gordon Coog- 
ler that they are unable to see what posterity Avill see so plainly. Mean- 
while, the work of Googlerising the countiy is rapidly growing and 
spreading. Enthusiastic Cooglerites are springing up everywhere, and 
Oooglerisms are heard on every side. These things show the drift of 
popular sentiment and taste." 

Again "The Constitution" says, in a column of review 
of my works : 

"By bis works ye shall know an author, and it would require a calm 
p<'rusal of the five volumes ii^sued by J. Gordon Coogler in order to get 



25 

in touch with the delicate fibers of liis tliouglits and feel the real force uf 
his undoubted genius. It was Carlyle who said of Burns : 'He liad a soul 
lilie an Aeolian harp changing the vulgar wind into melody.' Would 
that Oarlyle could have known J. Grordon Coogler. 

"In 'Maud, the Mill, and the Lily' a few of the most passionate 
thoughts of Mr. Coogler find utterance. It has about it the soleful sym- 
phony of Tennyson's 'Maud' as shown by the following verse : 

"Maud — for her gentle name was Maud — 
Wore many smiles, and they were sad. 

A thousand virtues she retained, 
Many of which I never had. 

"After a fall description of Maud he gives the following graphic pic- 
ture: 

"Maud did not heed the roaring sound 

Of distant thunder in the west, 
Nor did she fear the lightning's flash 
Grlistening on her snowy breast. 

"In individualizing Mr. Coogler gives higliest respect to woman, but 
for woman in the abstract he sometimes shows peculiar antipathy. 
* * * ^ 

"On this same subject of woman Mr. Coogler has a poem called 'She 
Fell Like a Flake of Snow.' In this stanza the pathos is most keen : 

"She was beautiful once ; but she fell. 

And some said : 'Let her go, 
For she can never shine agtxin 

Like a beautiful flake of snow.' 

"These few selections give but a faint idea of the genius of the South 
Carolina laureate." 



'*The Columbia (S. C.) State'' in a lengthy editorial re- 
view says : 

"Coogler's fifth volume of 'Purely Original Verse' is already recog- 
nized by entomological criticism throughout this broad land as a new 
and distinct species of surpassing interest. 

'•There is but one Coogler, the founder of the Cooglerian school of poesy, 
and while he sings the great American people will listen to no other of 
his kind. Later, perhaps, when Coogler shall have hung up his lyre,'and 
reclined upon his couch of bays, his pupils will begin to pipe— but not 
now, not yet. He has founded liis school, established his cult." 



''The Chicago (111.) Post" in a column of editorial re- 
view, says : 

"J. Gordon Coogler of South Carolina, the sweet singer of the Saluda, 
who reasonably aspires to the mantle worn by Paul Hayne, Lanier and 
Father Ryan, has favored us with a copy of his 'purely original verse.' 

* * * * * 

■ • • 'We have pursued his flights of fancy with more than ordinary 
interest, and with an effort to be calmly logical, though just and appre- 
ciative. We opened the book at 'Woman's Folly,' and as we are always 
concerned over the follies of woma:i we attach great imx^ortance to Mr. 

Coogler's conclusions. 

* * * * * 

"Our next experience with Mr. C )ogler's verse was the passionate 
adieu, 'Farewell Lilian' : 

"Farewell. Lilian, you are going 

Far away to leave m» now; 
You shall b^ the sunlight. Lilian, 

That shall linger on my brow. 
* * * * * 

"But Mr. Coogler is not solely devoted to his 'Lilian,' for we find him 
invoking 'Maud,' Daisy' ajid 'Laura,' not to spealt of 'a golden-haired 
girl,' a 'brown-eyed lady who occupes a lovely cottage.' a 'sweet college 
girl,' otherwise known as a *.nilk- while dove,' and an inamorata who 'is 
lying ill at her home.' And Mr. Coogler is not bound down by any ham- 
pering laws of caste, for he has an eye and a Jieart for the 'poor working 
girls,' as this lyric betrays: 

"Sweet working iL:irl. I love to view the happy smiles 

Upon thy fair and beaming face ; 
Thy perfect form, tho' devoid of rich apparel. 

Is lovelier far iKcause of its simple grace. 

••Thei(^'ri gall \ntry for you! Petrarch ncA^er wrote a prettier thing to 
liis Laura, nor Swift to his St( 11a, nor Dante to his Beatrice, nor Artie to 
liis Mill. But we must pass swiftly and regretfully away from these ten- 
der outpourings to tlie contemplation of Mr. Coogler's phi losoplij^ as por- 
ti-nyed in •Marriag(^ and I>(>ath' : 

"Marri^^ge and death — th(^se great invents in life, 

Alas I with each (Uheraie lilended; 
A f<^slive f-cene and a funerfvl march. 

And mail's l)i ief journey is endt(^ 



27 

"A marriage pui¥ and a funeral notice 

Is the end of his transient tale, 
And he vanishes from human sight 
Beyond life's dark and gloomy veil. 
*'We had not intended at this time to speak so exhaustively of Mr. 
Coogler's achievements, but we have been carried away by sincere ap- 
probation of his poetic impulse. It remains for us to say only that Mr. 
Coogler's book is adorned with a very attractive picture of the poet him- 
self, sitting at his table, pen in hand, thinking some thoughts of Maud 
and Daisy and Lilian, or, perchance throwing a liery challenge at his 
envious contemporaries." 



Editor Hale of "The Nashville (Tenn.) American" 
concludes a column of review of my works as follows : 
(Speaking of the poem entitled "The Path to Fame," he says,) 

'•The courage displayed is sublime. Here is at least one more poet 
who would be willing, I opine, to die for Grreece. But the public is so 
Ciueer in its tastes! 

"Seriously, if Mr, Coogler will study, acquaint himself with his tech- 
nique, and then write something, he may, on the notice he is now receiv- 
ing, be enabled to win a kinder public's ear than most young versifiers 
have won it. I at least wish him the fulfillment of his aspirations, as 
expressed in his lines to Hope : 

"For me thou hast upon thy gilded beam, 
The sunlight of a happier dream 
Ere my days shall cease." 



*'The Rutland (Vt.) Herald" in over a column of 
strong editorial, entitled, "Two Kinds of Diplomacy,'^ in 
which it deals with what the English papers say about the 
"^annoying ignorance of diplonaatic methods' 'shown by 
Secretary of State Sherman in the Behring sea correspond- 
ence with Lord Salisbury,^' referring to myself, says : 

"We are inclined to say with that able but not as yet very famous 
manufacturer of verse, J. Gordon Coogler, that 

"The man who thinks God is too Mnd 

To punish actions vile, 
Is bad at heart, of unsound mind, 

Or very juvenile."' 



28 

F'rom a column of editorial in the "Albany (N. Y.) 
Argosy'^: 

*'Mr. J. Gordon Coogler's fifth volume of 'Purely Original Verse' is a 
dainty volume of 82 pages, and contains more variety to the square inch 
thai any other book of poems Avith which we have acquaintance. Verses 
of Mr. Coogler are certainly versatile. 

***** 
'•Mr. Coogler is conscious of his failings, and in his poem of 'Maud, the 
Mill and the Lily,' he pays this tribute to Maud at his own expense : 

Maud — for her gentle name was Maud — 
Wore many smiles, and they were sad; 
A thousand virtues she retained, 
Many of which I never had. 
***** 
"We might continue indefinitely, but we close with the stanza entitled 
'Impossible.' .... 



"The Knoxville (reiui.) Tribune" in nearly a colinnn 
of editorial says : 

'•Coogler is no wea,kling; not a poet to be bluffed by criticism, or 
driven into silence by c )iitumelious remark^. He is as defiant as he is 
original. He is game; we admire his spirit, as we admire his verse." 



"The Charleston (S. C.) News and Courier" in a re- 
view of nny works, says : 

"There are many gems of thought and of melody scattered thoughout 
tlie pages of Mr. Coogler's volume, but we shrink from the task of select- 
ing the few that our limit would permit, while leaving unmentioned so 
many others equally Avorthy of fame. We cannot, however, resist the 
temptation of giving our readers the benefit of one stanza, which seems 
to us to combine patriotism, poetry and satire in a quite remarka- 
ble degree. It is the first verse of the author's innovati;)n to his native 
8t:ite: 

''Alas! Cirolina! Carolina! Fair land of my birth. 

Thy fame will be wafted from tlu^ mountain to the sea, 
As being the greatest (Hlucationnl ciMitre on (^arth. 

At the cost of men s blood thro' thy 'one X' whiskey." 



29 

From a page of review in "The Columbia (S. C.) Regis- 
ter": 

•'All truly great minds have a way of striking the keynote of a sub- 
ject in a single utterance, and without circumlocution of any kind; and 
the present reviewer was not, therefore, in the least surprised to find 
the very first poem in Mr. Coogler's fifth volume indicative of the pure 
and hallowed ambition that incites him to woo the muse. Its title is, 
'The Path to Fame,' and the initial verse lets every intelligent reader 
into Mr. Coogler's secret: 

"The path is old and well-beaten I know 

That leads away o'er the hills to fame ; 
I've started therein and I cannot turn back, 

I've naught to regret, and no one to blame." 



"The Trenton (N. J.) Times'' concluding an editorial 
on nfiy works, says : 

"It is difficult to assign J. Gordon Coogler to a place among the greater 
poets. His style seems to be a mixture of the Byronic and Tennysonian, 
though we do not wish to even intimate that Coogler is not original in 
his treatment of subjects." 



Editor Chas. Petty of "The Carolina Spartan" con- 
cludes an editorial, as follows : 

"J. Gordon Coogler, with the greatest facility, born of inspiration, fills 
up the little space at the bottom of the pages of his volumes with dainty 
couplets like this : 

"Alas! for the South, her books have grown fewer — 
She never was much given to literature. 

"Bravely does he stand up and plead that woman's fair fame shall 
never be stained by word or insinuation. He says : 

"All heaven has no water soft enough. 

Nor earth no cleansing soap, 
That can wash the crimson from the heart 

That destroys a woman's hope. 

"Now if that is not poetrj^, we would like for some one to tell us what 
it is." 



30 

A literary critic in the "Alkahest," Atlanta, Ga., writes : 

"'I will confess I had been reading Coogler for several months in secret 
before I discovered that he was to be appreciated, to be applauded, to be 
perpetuated. The first thought of all this burned in upon me while I 
was reading for the eleventh time the poem entitled; 'I Dislike a Vain 
and Haughty Man.' It was after reading the fourth verse which is as 
follows, that I became purely enthused; 

'■•If I should rise to lofty heights, 

And liumble heart shall be thereon, 
And though you may be far below. 

Remember, you I shall not scorn." 



"The Spartanbukg (8. C.) Herald" close-^ n lengthy 
odirorial ns follows : 

"A prophet is not without honor save in his own country, and it is 
much the same with poets. While South Carolina and Boston are pour- 
ing over the satin-lined volumes of Browning, the great heart of the 
great West has responded to the modest little 'fifth volume of purely 
original verses,' and we begin to see grey streaks of the dawn of a 
C.)oglerian age." 



Quite a number of other journals and magazines have 
noticed my works, some of them very extensively; but 
space will not permit furtlier extracts. Among them are: 

"The Boston Journal," the "Colorado Springs Gazette," 
the "Denver Colorado Times," the "Evening Telegram," 
Portland, Oregon, the "Detroit Free Press," the "Omaha 
Ree," the Jacksonville (Fla.) Citizen," the ''Norfolk (Va.) 
Landmai'k," the "Atlanta Journal," the "Savannah Morn- 
ing News," the "Greenville (S. C.) News," and the "Ohio 
State Journal." 

Among the magazines : "Peterson's Magazine," N. Y., 
"The Outlook," N. Y., "Book News," Philadelphia." 



31 
LETTERS FROM LITERARY PERSONS. 



"1823 ALDINE AVENUE, CHICAGO, ILL., Mauch 25th, 1897. 
Mr. J. Gordon Coogler, Columbia, S. C. : 

Dear Sir : I have been asked to write to you to express the deep in- 
terest taken in j^our work by one of Chicago's most celebrated literary 
clubs. We spent one whole evening of extreme enjoyment in reading 
and commenting upon your fifth volume of 'Purely Original Verse' and 
are now most anxious to know something more of one who has so aptly 
been called the American laureate. Other evenings of this season we 
have given over to the discussion of Heinrich Heine, Frederick Amiel 
and other writers of poetry and philosophy, but none has been so in- 
tensely enjoyable as that spent in the reading of your fifth volume of 
verse. We hope to spend next Thursday evening, April 1st, in another 
'Coogler' evening and would like to have you send some of the earlier 
of your published works, as well as an extra tv/o or three copies of 
volume five. Any information you care to add about how you came to 
discover your gift and what laurels, other than those you refer to in your 
introduction, have come to you from the public, we should be very, very 
grateful for. We regard you, if I may say so, as an extraordinary inter- 
esting man and would eagerly welcome any smallest detail of autobio- 
graphical information which might help us to a solution of the problem 
of your remarkable mentality. 

Please forward the volumies, with bill for same, and any other contri- 
bution you may care to make toward our study of your muse, to Miss 
Elizabeth Abbott, 1823 Aldine Avenue, Chicago, 111. 
Yours very sincerely, with profound gratitude, 

Elizabeth Abbott." 



The following letter was received from Mr. Henry W. 
Grady, Atlanta, Ga., president of the first literary club or- 
ganized in my name in the South, on receiving a life-size 
portrait of myself and a copy of my complete works : 

"ATLANTA, GA., June 11th, 18;)7. 
Mr. J. Gordon Coogler, Columbia, S. C: 
My Dear Sir: The morning's express brought to the Coogler club 
the elegant present you have so generously made the organization. To 



say that the members of the club are delighted with the picture and 
grateful for your interest in the organization but mildly expresses their 
feelings. Eich and every member wanted to take the picture from the 
packing case with his own hands, but I, as president of the club, ap* 
pointed myself a committee of one to perform that pleasant duty. The 
elegant little volume containing these poetic gems that we all love so 
dearly will be kept in the club room at all times where the members 
may learn something each day of their favorite poet. I trust that you 
will pardon a few words about myself, but I want you to know what a 
pleasure your poems have been to me personally, I read them con- 
stantly and at evei*y perusal of your sweet verse I find something new 
to admire and sentiments that appf^al to me. May your muse long con- 
tinue to guide your fearless pen and give to the world, in spite of your 
envious critics, more of those charming verses that are making you 
immortal. But in my enthusiasm I have digressed from my intention 
of thanking you for the picture and the poems. I desire not only to 
thank you in behalf of the club, but to personally let you know how I* 
as president of the Coogler club, appreciate your interest in our little 
band. If the club can do anything, however small, in the way cf mak- 
ing the world appreciate real genius, I can confidently say that every 
member will feel that he has done something to help the condition of 
his fellow man. The world will soon learn that the South has at least 
cnie literary genius who, though he may pass out of his mortal form, 
will ( V3r live in the memory of his people as one worthy to represent to 
the world of letters a people jjroud to point to him as their one great 
poet. We have every day requests from people to become members of 
the club, but we are careful about admitting new brothers, as we have 
now an organization to 1 e proud of and desire to have in it only the 
most appreciative literary spirits. As you know, nearly all of the mem- 
bers of the club are newspaper men who are working, as you are, to be- 
come famous with the pen, and who are ever ready to do what they call 
to aid their more fortunate brothers on up the road of fame. 

With the best wishes of the club and its humble president, I have the 
honor to be your admirer and friend, 

Henry W. Grady." 



33 

The following is an extract from a letter received by the 

author from a highly intelligent literary lady of Boston, 

Mass. Owing to the letter being of a private nature, her 

name is omitted : 

•'Through your kindness I can now enjoy the whole of the beautiful 
lyric beginnings 

"As the summer Sunbeams 
Peep o'er the distant liills 

On some sweet and lonely brook, 
So my weary, longing eyes, 
Warm with the dew of love. 

To thee alone do look. 

"But Why so short ? You always stop when one wants you to go on the 
most. 'I Wish I W^as There' is as beautiful as it is sad. Even the dear 
little 'Violet and Jonquil' has the tone«color of sadness." 



[FIFTH VOLUME.) 



This volume, (the fifth in order of a series of small volumes) contain- 
ing seventy pages, I respectfully dedicate to 

THE J. GORDON COOGLER CLUB, STANZA 1. OF ATLANTA, GA., 

as a token of gratitude for their appreciation of my works. 

,1. (-JORDON CoOGLER. 

Columbia, S. C. 



(The dedication of each of the other small volumes in this volume 
complete will be as follows : Fourth volume ; to the Sons and Daughters 
of Carolina— third volume; to my patrons throughout the North, East 
and West— second volume; to Dr. W. J. Murray— first volume; to W. IT. 
Gihbes, Jr., and J. Wilson Gibbes.) 



THE PATH TO FAME. 

The path is old and well-b3aten I know 
That leads away o'er the hills to fame; 

I've started therein and I cannot tnrn back, 
I've naught to regret, and no one to blame. 

The clouds may be dark that linger around 
These feet as they move in that lone sphere, 

And the thorns be many to pierce my heart, 
Yet 'mid all these I've nothing to fear. 

Let critics assail my innocent muse, 

And belittle the name w^hich they ne'er can mar. 
Yet both shall shine from the hills of fame 

Like the radiant light of some sweet star. 

Tho' the course I have taken be lonely and dark. 
Pitied, condemn'd by one and by all; 

Yet the star of ambition is glowing for me, 
Tho' I stumble, alas ! I ne'er shall fall. 



IMPOSSIBLE. 

You may as well try to change the course 
Of yonder sun 

To north and south, 
As to try to subdue by criticism 
This heart of verse, 

Or close this mouth. 



36 POEMS. 

WOMAN'S FOLLY. 

Alas! poor woman, with eyes of sparkling fire, 
Thy heart is often won by mankind's gay attire ; 
So weak thou art, so very weak at best, 
Thou canst not look beyond a satin-lined vest. 

I've seen thee ofttimes cast a winning glance 
And be carried away — as it were within a trance — 
By the gay apparel of some dishonest youth, 
Whose bosom heaved with not a single truth. 

Alas! for thee — I would that thou couldst learn 

That love does not in such quicksilver burn ; 

That he who lurks beside thy virtuous path, 

When thy good name is gone, will gaze on thee and laugh. 

For what care he, whom thy fair hand would take. 
If in after years thy gentle heart should break ; 
No tears of remorse would damp his wayward eyes — 
Such tears can only come ere the conscience dies. 



AH, DAISY. 

Ah, Daisy, so lovely in thy gentleness. 
Who would not press thy snowy hand 
Until thy cheeks grew red; 
Who would not live in the bahny breeze 
That gently wafts the silken curls 
On thy angelic head. 



Alas! for the South, her books have grown fewer- 
She never was much given to literatiire. 



POEMS. 37 



SOME DAY, 



Some day, when the light of your sweet azure eyes 
Shall grow dim as dying sunbeams on the sea, 

Then as you raise those weary eyes and gaze 
Afar off — may you sometimes think of me, 

8onie day, when memory brings the happy thought 
Of other years when our hearts beat firm and slow, 

Then you may bear for me that perfect love 
I have borne for you, since I met you long ago. 

Some day, when life's dark shadows shall have borne 
The golden sunbeams from 'round your gentle feet, 

Then you will think of the love which you have spurn'd 
On my heart's pure shrine, so gentle and so sweet. 

May you, when the dint of sorrow marks your brow, 
And hope grows dim within your troubled heart, 

Think of me, alone in this changing world, 

Mourning o'er love's ties, that now lie far apart. 

Think, then, of the happy hours we've spent together 

On the summit of yonder gentle hill, 
Where in tears you told me you'd be true to me, 

Those words burn deep within my memory still. 

Some day — if not within this vale of tears 

Where ties are broken, and love is tempest driven — 

You'll love me as fondly as I have e'er loved you, 
In the unchanging light of an eternal heaven. 



**P'areweir' — that word we all must speak, 
How it wearies the heart and fades the cheek. 



38 POEMS. 

SING ON, GENTLE MUSK 

Sing on, gentle muse, yon shall be heard again! 
Your soft notes shall tloat upon the breeze 

To comfort the outcast and the poor; 
From the lone meadows to the hill-tops drear 
Your gentle notes shall charm the savage ear 

That never cared for song before. 

Ijike a light-winged bird you shall ascend 
Far above the many jealous tongues 

That seek to wound your lonely heart; 
You shall be heard, and while you sing of love^ 
And soar afar like some lone turtle dove. 

You must receive the critics' dart. 

They are many, and very rash indeed, 
And often fling their poison 'd arrows deep 

Down in the heart's tender'st core; 
But the w^ound the}^ inflict will not be as hard to bear 
As that inflicted by the friends you once held dear 

'Round your own fond native door. 



MYSTERIOUS TEAK! 

From what warm region comest thou, 
Oh, thou strange and erring drop, 

So crystal clear? 
E'en on the smooth white cheek of youth 
Thou dost leave thy lasting stain — 

Mysterious Teak I 



POEMS, 39 



DESTROY IT NOT. 



Go shatter the wails of some beautiful city 
That is noted for grandeur and fame, 

Rather than east a suggestive remark 
To destroy a woman's fair name. 

The walls of a city can be erect'^^d again, 
Their beauty be grander than ever; 

But a woman's good name once destroyed 
Can ne'er be reclaim 'd, no never. 

All Heaven has no water soft enough, 

Nor earth no cleansing soap. 
That can wash the crimson from the heart 

That destroys a woman's hope. 



ALAS! CAROLINA! 

Alas! Carolina! Carolina! Fair land of my birth, 

Thy fame will be wafted from the mountain to the sea 

As being the greatest educational centre on earth, 
At the cost of men's blood thro' thy "one X" whiskey. 

Two very large elephants^ thou hast lately installed, 
Where thy sons and thy daughters are invited to come, 

And learn to be physically and mentally strong. 
By the solemn proceeds of thy "innocent" rum. 

*Winthvop and Clemson colleges. 



40 POEMS. 



THEY LAID HER DOWN IN A LONELY GRAVE. 

They laid her down while the autumn leaves were falling, 
In a lonely grave beside the deep blue sea; 

Her angel spirit is now beyond recalling, , 

And her fair form can ne^er revisit you and me. 

They laid her low while the autumn winds were sighing 
Thro' the half-clad trees on yonder lonely hill; 

The breeze that passed o'er the grave where she was lying 
Was as soft as the wind that ripj>Ies the gentle rill. 

She sleeps to-day in all her truth and loveliness, 
The purest and gentlest of her gentle kind ; 

We loved her, and loved her none the less 
For the little faults which she has left behind. 

Soon summer's morn will brighten her resting place, 

And scatter its dew above her azure eyes; 
The little birds will sing 'round her happy face, 

And thf flowers bloom sweetly 'neath the sunny skies. 

The violet will bloom beside the lily there, 
Bound, as by love, in some sweet magic spell, 

And ev'ry petal a brighter hue will wear 
For her who sleeps below — a crushed immortelle. 

So let her sleep, in all her gentleness, 

Like some sweet form in love's enchanting dream; 
She'll bloom again in all her perfectness, 

The lily of holy love beside a crystal stream. 



The sweetest beam of love and grace 
Is that which glows on an honest face. 



POEMS. 41 

A CRYSTALTZED ROSE. 

In my garden I stroll'd on a cold winter morn, 
As the beautiful snow lay under my feet; 

The hills and the dales, and all I beheld, 

Was laden and shining with glist'ning sleet. 

All ^round me there glitter'd, above and below, 

Icicles in groups and icicles in rows; 
I saw at my feet in a nriantle of sleet 

The half-blown bud of a beautiful rose. 

I gathered the rose in its glittering robe, 
And tenderly bore it to the warmth of my room, 

Where I gazed on its leaves till the ice dripp'd away, 
Then naught I beheld but the sweet-scented bloom. 

On my mantle I placed it in a brown-color'd vase 
Where no roses, save summer's, had clustered before, 

It petals soon open'd and my chamber was sweet 
With its delicate odor for a fortnight or more. 

As I thought of this lonely and innocent bud, 
Too modestly blooming for man to behold, 

I remember'd the form of a beautiful girl 
Cast out in the world to die in the cold. 

As I gazed on its leaves so tender and sweet, 
More perfect than the rose in the morning of May, 

I pictured the face of that beautiful being 
Away from the sunlight of life's sweet day. 

I thought of her life with its winter and frost, 
And how truly unhappy her moments had been — 

I wished I had borne her, like the sweet rose. 
To my chamber of love— and admitted her in. 



42 POEMS. 

She budded and bloomed in the garden of sorrow, 
Passed down to her grave in the monld'ring- cJay; 

Her beautiful spirit's now blooming in heaven — 
The snow and the ice have all melted away. 



IN REMEMBRANCE. 

(Written on the flyleaf of a volume of poems which the author pre- 
sented to a young lady friend in Nashville, Tenn. Over the verses a red 
rose was pressed.) 

'Tis only a rose which I tenderly plucked, 
And lovingly bore from the garden's dew; 

It may not be fair, but it tells of the care 
The poet has displayed in remembrance of you. 

Here let it remain tho' witlier'd and crushed, 
It tells of a friendship unfading and true ; 

Tho' on this fair page it leaves but a stain, 

That stain shall be sweet, if in remembrance of you. 



WHEN SHE IS GONE. 

No truer deed in token of love wi'll I employ, 
Than to scatter o'er her lonely resting place 

Fresh immortelles 
In fond mem'ry of the life and love 
Of tliat dear old mother who always loved her boy. 

Tho' Time's cold hand may steal from me life's dearest joy, 
And I be left alone in a wide, wide world, 

Sadly forsaken — 
Yet naught can take from me the life, the love, 
Of that dear old mother who always loved her boy. 



POEMS. 43 

FAREWELL, SWEET HOME! 

Farewell, sweet home of my childhood hours! 

Where joy and sorrow were blended ; 
Within thy halls I have loved and lost, 

But now those scenes are ended. 

In other days when hope was dawning new 
In the hearts that gathered 'round thy hearth, 

A loving band had just been gathered there, 
When one by one they faded to earth. 

Farewell, sweet home of my childhood hours! 

Strange hours of joy and pain; 
The smiles, the tears, thus mingled there. 

Can ne'er the like be felt again. 



MORE CARE FOR THE NECK THAN FOR THE 
INTELLECT. 

lair lady, on that snowy neck and half-clad bos(«n 
Which you so publicly reveal to man, 

There's not a single outward stain or speck; 
Would that you had given but half the care 
To the training of your intellect and heart 

As you have given to that spotless neck. 

For Time, alas ! must touch with cold, unerring hand, 
That fair bosom's soft, untarnish'd hue, 

Staining that lily-leaf of your sweet sex ; 
Then in ignorance you will journey here below, 
Hiding that once fair bosom 'neath a veil, 

With a standing collar 'round your wrinkled neck. 



44 POEMS. 

'^UNSTEADY I STAND." 

(On hearing a lady, speaking of lier past life and hopes, say: *'! am 
now on the verge of womanhood; eighteen summers' old; but oh, how 
unsteady I stand!") 

"Unsteady I stand" on the very verge 

Of womanhood, and cast aside ; 
I cannot retrace life's journey now, 

On its gloomy waters I would not glide. 

No bark doth drift on that lone stream 
Whose angry waters below me roll — 

My youthful dream of life is o'er, 
I stand alone with troubled soul. 

Could I but mount the wind that wings 

Its rapid flight across my way, 
Fain would I go — as in a dream — 

And sail thro' lands of endless day. 

Could I but float in that lone sound. 

That echo from a world of woe — 
I'd close these eyes in endless sleep — 

Careless of where my soul would go. 

Could I but climb to yonder skies 

On this golden sunbeam at my feet, 
There I would find my home, my heaven. 

Youth's dream fuIfilTd and friendship sweet. 



Alas! strange man! so prone to win some maiden's heart, 
And cause it to swell with grief and pain ; [hi id 

T.ike some school boy seeking to cage and wound the sweet 
Whose life he can never make cheerful again. 



POEMS. 45 

OTHER DAYS. 

Who does not love when youth is past 
To wander back to scenes he loved 

In days gone by; 
To sit in some familiar spot 
Where the evening sunbeams gather, from 

A cloudless sky. 

Who does not love to hear the notes, 
The wild notes of the soaring lark, 

High o'er the trees; 
To see it soar around his head, 
Then softly 'light in the meadow grass, 

In June's sweet breeze. 

Who does not love to linger 'round 
The sunny spot where he once roved 

A careless boy ; 
To pluck sweet violets from the bed 
On which he plucked them long ago, 

With heart of joy. 



FAREWELL, SWEET SUMMER! 

Farewell, sweet Summer! my own fair guest, 

You have given this heart no pain ; 
May brighter joys attend your peaceful visit 

When you come to my bosom again. 

You have kissed my cheeks with your rose-tint lips 

As I sat at sweet eve in the lane; 
J shall sigh for the touch of those passionate lips 

Till you come to my bosom again. 



ifi POEMS. 

FAREWELL, LILIAN! 

Farewell Lilian ! you are g'oing 
Far away to leave me now ; 

You shall be the sunlight, Lilian, 
That shall linger on my brow. 

Fate hath whispered, you must leave me. 
And you cannot well delay; 

We must part, perhaps forever, 
On this balmy autumn day. 

Would that I had never met you^ 
Never held your gentle hand, 

Then my heart had ne'er been broken. 
To sorrow in its native land. 

Would that I had never loved you, 
Never press'd your lips to mine; 

Then I would to-day be happier, 
Bowing at some nobler shrine. 

Yet the love which you have taught me 

Ne'er shall fade within my breast. 
But shall beam along my journey 

Like a sunbeam from the west. 
If when you are lonely, Lilian, 

You should bear a smile for me; 
Let that smile be as the sunlight 

On a dark and troubl'd sea — 
For my life is like its billows. 

Dark and gloomy as the night ; - 
Save when you are shedding on me 

Your sweet ray of morning light. 



POEMS, 47 



Farewell, Lilian! if forever 
We should thus be borne apart, 

Think of me, and love me as kindly 
As I have loved your gentle heart. 



SHE FELL LIKE A FLAKE OF SNOW. 

She was beautiful once ; but she fell . 

To the clay-stained earth below ; 
Her tender form came down to die, 

As softly as a flake of snow. 

She was beautiful once ; but she fell 

To the lowest depth of woe ; 
She can never be sp )tle3s again, 

And as pure as a flake of snow. 

She was beautiful once ; but she fell, 

And some said, ''let her go," 
For she can never shine again 

Like a beautiful flake of snow. 

She was beautiful once ; but she fell 

Just three sad years ago ; 
She fell in the grave of sorrow, 

And lay like a flake of snow. 

Site was beautiful once; but she fell, 

Ne'er to rise again, ah, no; 
She fell in all her loveliness, 

And vanished like a flake of snow. 



48 POEMS. 

KEEP SILENT, HAND! 

Weak band of mine, keep silent ever^ 
If this bosom beats apart 

From all that is good and true ; 
Pen not a line that would lead to viee^ 
For what is written on this scroll 

Eternity ean not undo. 

Keep silent, hand ! for the gift to tell 
The thoughts that linger in this heart 

Was not bj^ mankind given; 
And I must suffer in the end 
For ev'ry word I hereon trace 

That would keep a soul fronri heaven. 



SO-CALLED FKIEND8HIP. 

We call it "Friendship,'^ yet how strange 
It moves in this cold world of ours ; 

It may be just, it may be true. 
But it doesn't live in nature's bowera 

^Tis but a kind of unknown being, 
Roaming in the highest spheres — 

If you grasp it, 'twill deceive you 
By the holy garb it often wears. 

It is no spirit from the heavens. 
Nor the regions of the dead ; 

But a kind of unknown demon 
Manufactured in the head. 



POEMS. 49 



PRETTY MISS LOU. 

You may speak of the lily in all its splendor, , 
And the dear little violet witli its leaves of blue ; 

These may be lovely, but they cannot be compared 
To the sweet, gentle face of my charming Miss Lou. 

You may dream of your visit to the garden of love 
Where your heart 'mid its rapture beat never untrue; 

This may be the brightest fair dream of your life, 
But mine is far brighter when I think of Miss Lou. 

You may smile at the mem'ry of those rose-tint cheeks 
That once press'd your bosom with a pressure too true ; 

That mem'ry may be sweet, but to me theie is none 
So dear as the mem'ry of my pretty Miss Lou. 

You may dote on that love that too often is shaken, 
And may treasure the ties which Time may undo ; 

But the love that is constant, and the ties that are firm, 
I could find, if she'd let me, in my gentle Miss Lou. 

As I roam in life's garden of sweet-scented flowers, 
For no tenderer bud from its gems will I sue 

Than this sweet little jonquil that's blooming alone, 
And it is none other than n)y charming Miss Lou. 



If you mean for me not to love you, sweet May, 
You must turn those dark blue eyes away. 

And let me not see them, or else I will sue 
For no love save yours, while looking on you. 



50 POEMS. 

I WrSH I WAS THERE. 

I wish I was by that rippling stream 
Where oft I roamed in boyhood days 

When my heart was young and gay, 
And my footsteps light and swift 
As the wild deer^s for some quiet brook 

By a green hill far away. 

I wish I was nigh that m^ssy cliff 

From whose summit I^ve watched the sun 

At the close of day depart, 
As a single ray from its golden beam 
Would kiss my cheek, then fade away, 

As love-light fades from the heart. 

I wish I was where I once have been. 
When the bloom of youth was on my cheek. 

And hope was in this breast; 
When the tide of life was warm with truth, 
And gentle love was utmost there, 

And all was peace and rest. 

I wish I was young and had no care 
To draw this breast adown to earth. 
And fill these eyes with tears; 
s And the lily-hand of love and peace 
Had the same sweet touch as in other days, 
How few would be my fears. 

I wish I was nigh that angel face 
That shone in early days so fair — 

My bright and morning star — 
Whose downy cheeks that so oft have press'd 
This bosom — tiave left an impress there 

Eternity can never mar. 



POEMS. 51 



THE WORKING GIRL. 

Sweet working girl — as thou dost pass along the street, 

Pursuing thy humble, honest toil, 
Cursed be he who would dare to cast a slur 

On thee — thy virtuous name to spoil. 

Swet t working girl— I love to view the happy smiles 

On thy fair and ever-beaming face — 
Thy perfect form, tho^ devoid of rich apparel, 

Is lovelier far because of its simple grace. 

Sweet working girl; tho^ thy earthly lot seem hard. 

And faint be the hope within thy breast, 
Yet thou art blest, for thro' thy faithfulness 

Thou wilt gain Heaven's eternal rest. 

Sweet working girl — tho' false stars shine around thee 

While thy cheeks with care grow pale. 
Take courage then, for there's a morning star that glows 

For thee — behind life's gloomy veil. 

Sweet working girl — tho' Fate has destined thy fair hand 

To labor in place of a wayward brother, 
Yet Heaven will reward thee for thy honest toil 

In suppoit of thy aged, widow'd mother. 



A GLOOMY PICTURE. 

From early youth to the frost of age 
Man's days have been a mixture 

Of all that constitutes in life 
A dark and gloomy picture. 



52 POEMS. 



TO LAURA. 

Ah, Laura, when you roam in dreams of solitude, 
And your smiles grow sad as dying sunbeams on the sea, 

Will you not, ^mid those hours of loneliness. 
Gaze oft on these true lines and sometimes think of me. 

Will you not, at night when those bright eyes are closed 
In dreams, and you recall sweet moments past and gone, 

Think of me— and from some pleasant thought may you 
Learn to love me on the beautiful rising morn. 

Sweet Laura, I love the sunlight on your crimson cheeks, 

And the gleam of hope that lingers 'round your placid brow; 
I love them, and in my life's most dreary hours 
They shall remain to me as dear as they are now. 

Fond Laura, if e'er your loving breast shall feel 

Lonely and for.-aken by the friends you once Ueld dear, 

Think of me, as one who loves you truly well, 
Though I in your fond heart may have no share. 



THE MIND. 

\ The mind that cannot create worlds, 

Make hills and mountains great and small, 
And streams and lakes, and thus the like. 
Is to my mind — no mind at all. 

And people, too, it should create, 
Of ev'ry class, the rich and poor — 

Womati should be made queen of all — 
Beautiful — then nothing more. 



POEMS. 5c 

MAUD, THE MILL, AND THE LILY: 

I hate the winding path that leads 

Adown the shadowy glen; 
I can view^ the scenes I never loved 

More vividly now than then. 

There is the same familiar stream, 

Whose waters I oft have drank. 
And the old mill pond, from whose dark edge 

I aft, so oft have shrank. 

The old mill house is standing still 

Where the neighbors ground their corn ; 

The night-owl sleeps beneath its roof 
When the nightly shades are gone. 

Fast to the door-post and the roof 

The melancholy ivy cleaves, 
While high above the gentle winds 

Sigh thro' the lonely forest leaves. 

Thro' the cracks of the old flood-gate 

The blackish waters flow, 
Dashing, foaming, mingling with 

The angry stream below. 

I hate the roaring, chilly sound, 

That so oft did greet my ear, 
Of the solemn waters, flowing still 

Below the mill house drear. 

Beside those waters once there sat 

A being clothed in white. 
With slender form and lily-hand, 

And countenance pure and bright. 



5 i P O E M .S . 

Maud— for her g-entle name was Maud — 
Wore many smiles, and they were sad ; 

A thousand virtues she retained, 
Many of which I never had. 

Her raven locks were silken soft, 
Dark and bright her sparkling* eyes; 

Her face was like the sunniier sun 
Glowing in the eastern skies. 

While the old mill w^heel shrieked and roar'd 
Maud would often watch and wait 

And list to the foaming waters pass 
Below the old flood-gate. 

^Twas in sweet May, as the sinking sun 
Was shedding o'er the hills a gleam, 

Maudy who loved the woodland flowers, 
Wander'd down besida the stream. 

The evening shades soon gather'd 'round, 
And darkness hover'd o'er her path; 

Xo sound did greet her lonely ear 
Save the night-owTs tickle laugh. 

Dark clouds arose and slowly passed, 
Hiding the stars above her head — 

She wander'd by the lonely stream 

Like some sweet spirit 'round the dead. 

Maud did not heed the roaring sound 
Of distant thunder in the west, 

Nor did she fear the lightning's flash 
Glist'ning on her snowy breast. 




Beside those waters once there sat 
A being clotlied in white, 

With slender form and lily-hand, 
And countenance pure and bright. 



P O E ]M B . 57 

The wind arose, the thunder roar'd, 

The forest trees fell with a crash ; 
No living thing could there be seen 

Save little Maud in the lightning's flash. 

What a lovely view for angels' eyes 
To have looked upon that gentle form 

Clad in white, and slowly moving 
In the dark, terrific storin. 

Close by the stream on a grassy mound 

A tender lily waved in sight — 
The silvery lightning from the clouds 

Had revealed to Maud its petals white. 

8he strolFd toward the lily fair, 

As one would^stroll within a dream 
To find the angel-form they loved 

And lost— beyond life's sullen stream. 

Maud's gentle feet had strayed too near 

The darkish streamlet's nniossy bank- 
She stooped and plucked the lily fair, 
But both beneath the waters sank. 

Oh, Maud ! how oft have I, too, strolTd 

Beside those waters at your side; 
How often have I, too, revealed 

To you the love I could not hide. 

How often have I gazed into 

Your dark and ever-beaming eyes; 
While gazing there have I not felt 

My bosom freed from mortal sighs ? 



58 POEMS. 

Have I not pressed your lily-haud, 
And blushing cheek unto this breast; 

In the stillness of that luippy hour 
Have I not felt the sweetest rest ? 

Have I not with the gentlest touch 
Un braided your locks of silken hair, 

And turning your dove-like face to mine 
Have I not call'd you my angel fair ? 

I hate the lily, hate the stream, 
That solemn flow of ano;ry waters, 

But, oh, how sweet to think of jNIaud, 
The fairest of the miller's daugliter.-;. 

I hate the path that leads adown 
Beside the lone and dreary mill — 

The shadows of that blackish pond 
Are painful to my memory still. 



HOW STRANGELY DARK. 

Her dark eyes — I would that they were not like mine, 

So strangely dark ; 
I would that they had less of human passion's 

Deep burning spark. 

I dare not — e'en when bidding her adieu. 

Hold her warm hand; 
For there would come a spark from her l)right eyes 

1 couldn't withstand. 



POEMS. 59 

AN OUTCAST PEARL. 
D.)wn in the heart of that newly open'd bud, 
Tried by the wind of many a troubled gale, 

Lies the destiny of a being young and fair; 
The peace and joy that might have reigned within 
That tender heart that never draamed'of sin, 

Are gone, alas! forever buried there. 

vSo kind and gentle she grew into her teens 
(Close beside the dingy rose of baffled love) 

Too purely beautiful for earthly care — 
Her heart was young — too innocent and young 
To dream of the shame a fallen mother brings 

On the child she once held tenderly and dear. 

In girlhood days she'd seen the deeds of vice 

That blight the home where happiness would reign, 

And cloud the sunlight on its grassy lawn — 
She'd lived, she'd loved — and yet she had not lived 
Since life's fond hopes had faded in her breast- 
To live without hope one had better ne'er been born. 

'Twas faultless love which heaven bade her bear 
For her upon whose bosom she'd slept in infancy, 

Unconscious of her lone, mysterious birth — 
The stain of that mother's sin which she in after years 
Must e'er endure, had made her nothing else 

Than an outcast pearl in the miry slums of earth. 

An outcast pearl ! — but what else could that angel be 
In this condemning world of sin and strife, 

Tho' her heart be as pure as the highest flakes of snow? — 
Siie was tempted and tried, but never did she sin, 
Tho' borne on the hard and ever-cruel breast 

Of one whose highest aim was all that was mean and low. 



60 POEMS. 

Along thro' life she'd watched the downward course 
Of her whose guilty sins she too must bear, 

Unable, alas! to change or rectify that course — 
She'd prayed from early youth till girlhood days 
For deeds that might not stain her life in after years. 

But, alas! she could not close that fountain's hellish 
source. 

Why should she be born within a world like this, 
Where a pure girl is forever cast aside 

If she cannot boast of her parents' virtuous name, 
While the sin-stained heart is honor'd and beloved 
Because of the garb of righteousness it wears 

To shield from human eyes its misery and shame. 

Ofttimes she 'sat on her lonely porch at eve 
As the golden sunbeams kissed her gentle feet, 

On the solemn verge of each departing day ; 
She watch'd those beams till they withdrew their gold, 
And thought how sweet if she could only go 

With those soft beams, and forever fade away. 

The shadows that gather'd 'round her humble home 
Were darken'd, alas! by the breath of human scorn, 

Yet heaven's sunbeams delighted to kiss her feet, 
And leave their peace upon her lonelv brow, 
And their fond hope within her weity heart, 

These latter gifts to her were most divinely sweet. 

To-day she stands in all her tenderness. 
Alone, forsaken by mankind and her sex, 

A pearl too pure to grace an angel's breast — 
vShe must live, then die, and then be laid away 
In some lone spot — perhaps a desert tield^- 

And then her pure, angelic spirit will be at rest. 



POEMS. 61 

No human form will stand beside that lonely grave 
When she is gone, and shed a sympathizing tear 

For her who sleeps in true forgetfulness ; 
Kind Nature will waft o'er her its gentle breeze 
And plant sweet violets 'round her sinless head — 

For Nature loved her more — humankind the less. 



YOU'LL NEVER SEE IT, 

(On being asked by a young lady, just after a renowned Northern 
journal had given my works a page of complimentary review, if my hat 
was not "too small for my head,") 

You'll never see this head too large for my hat, 
You may watch it and feel it as oft as you choose; 

But you'll learn, as millions of people have learned, 
Of my character and name thro' my innocent muse. 

You'll never see this form clad in gaudy apparel, 

Nor these feet playing the "dude" in patent-leather shoes; 

But your childrens' children will some day read 
Some pleasant quotations from my innocent muse. 



DEVOTION. 

I know a white hand that will place 
A bunch of violets o'er this face 

When I am gone — 
Sweet violets from beneath the bowers 
Where I have spent my happiest hours 

In life's sweet morn. 



G2 r O E M S . 

HOPE, SWEET HOPE I 

Oh, Hope, sweet Hope ! resplendent ray ! 
Thou hast promised this heart a brighter day, 

A day of joy and peace ; 
For me thou hast upon thy gilded beam 
The sunlight of a happier dream 

Ere my days shall cease. 

Oh, Hope, sweet Hope! why longer wait? 
Soon youth is past, and 'tis too late 

For the boon for which I sigh ; 
The glow of dark eyes will be dim, 
Encircled by ill-health's darkened rim, 

And smiles grow cold and die. 

Oh, Hope, sweet Hope! this weary breast 
Fain would call on thee for rest 

From ev'ry inmost care; 
Earth's joy and peace can ne'er be mine 
While that resplendent ray of thine 

Brings no fond object near. 

Oh, Hope, sweet Hope I to thee I bow, 
I've waited long, am waiting now 

To realize thy bliss; 
8oon in the grave this form shall lie, 
Mould'ring ''neath yon star-lit sky — 

Dead to thy raptur'd kiss. 



I have promised her ne'er to mention her sweet name again ; 
But, oh, how the fulfillment of that promise gives me paio. 



POEMS. m 

THE MIDNIGHT HOUR 
'Tis midnight— that most solemn hour in life, 
When stern Nature, growing weary with stillness, 
Lays her head upon the lap of Almighty God; 
And there without a troubled dream she lies, 
Breathing as an infant on its mother's breast, 
While poor mankind must sleep the sleep of death. 

The sleep of death !— For what is that dread hour 

To the human soul but an hour of conscious pain 

Borne by the vision of a mysterious realm ? 

A realm beyond the grave where all must tend 

To gather with the countless millions that have pass'd 

Along that journey — in happiness or wo3. 

'Tis the hour when ev'ry human heart must learn 
What it hath gained in life, and what it costs to die 
With an account unbalanced for eternity — 
When the last fond ray of hope must fade away 
As a golden sunbeam behind the western clouds, 
Leaving the human soul in shadows dark to roam. 

'Tis midnight — when we awake — if awake we must, 

In tears — to think of those we've early loved 

And lost, and whose fond memory brings 

The dawn of other sunny days around us 

When spring-tide's roses bloom'd beside our path, 

Only to fade in the hour of midnight gloom. 

'Tis the hour when life's star flickers low 
On the verge of death's descending cloud, 
Behind whose summit there may be peace 
And a silvery lining for us, poor mankind, 
Whose life, ambition, all, are center'd in the hope 
Of some eternal star beyond this vale of tears. 



U POEMS. 

^'THROUGH STORM ON EARTH TO PEACE 
IN HEAVEN.'' 

The fallowing lines were suggested on seeing a very sad and beautiful 
picture in a magazine not long since, entitled: '^Through Stonn on 
Earth to Peace in Heaven." 

On a tumultuous sea, das^hed hy tlie waves is a frail little hark, rowed 
hy an aged Prophet. Lying on two beams across the boat is a bier on 
which lies the lifeless form of a beautiful young girl, with hands crossed 
on her bosom, and face turned slightly to one side. Bending o*er this 
fair figure, as if in the act of imparting a farewell kiss, is the weeping 
mother. On the bosom of the departed one lies a wreath of fresh 
immortelles. White roses lie ui>on her feet. 

Beneath the dark and gloomy clouds 

The little bark is tempest driven, 
See it ride upon the billows 

'^^Thro' storm on earth to peace in heaven.^' 

See the brave old Prophet standing 

With shining oar in faithful hand, 
Battling Against the raging tempest 

Thro' earthly storm to a sunny land. 

See the mother bending lowly 

O'er the cold and lifeless form 
Of her fair and sinless child, 

Passing thro' lifers beating storm. 

See the foaming billows dashing^ 

Almost o'er the slender bark 
As it floats within the tempest 

On the waters lone and dark. 



FOE M S . (>5 

But the Prophet steers it onward, 

Tho' its beam be almost riven. 
To that fair, eternal shore, 

Beyond life's storm to peace in heaven. 

Hear liim speak to the weeping mother, 

In whose heart is gri3f and pain — 
*'Have faith, and yon shall soon be where 

Your precious child will live again." 

*'Many a spotless soul Twe rowed 

O'er these waters lone and dark; 
But a PUKEK form I ne^er have borne 

Than she who sleeps in this lone bark." 

Hear the mother faintly whisper, 

As darker grows the chilly night, 
*'Oh, Prophet, Saviour, tell me when 

I shall see just a ray of light ?'^ 

"Have faith, ^^ the Prophet firmly spoke, 
*'And soon you'll reach the eternal shore, 

Where your loved-one will be happy, 
And at sweet rest forever-more.^^ 

Thro' the darkness peers the mother, 

As the Prophet rows them on — 
*'Oh,'^ she says, *'I see the sunlight 

Of a fair and glorious morn I'^ 

Soon they reach tiiat shining harbor 
Where mortal sins are all forgiven^ 

She passed, as I and you must pass, 
"Thro' storm on earth to peace in Heaven." 



66 POEMS. 

HAIL, THOU QUEEN!— ATLANTA! 

(Written during the Exposition.) 

Queen of the South! arrayed iu white, 

All e^^es are now upon thee 
O'er this great nation, far and wide, 

And across the dark blue sea. 

Men and maidens flock to thee, 
Like birds unto a sunny clime, 

To feel thy warmth and view thy grace, 
And hear thy gay bells sweetly chime. 

Upon thy breast a wreath of lilies 
Adorn thy being, rich and fair; 

The rose of many a sunny land 
Clusters in thy golden hair. 

Hail thou Queen ! whose gentle hand 
Bears no trace of gloomy fetters ; 

Upon thy faithful heart is graven, 
"Welcome," in golden letters. 

Thy feet are firm, and shall endure 
To reach ambition's lofty height; 

Thine arm is love, and must prevail 
To lead from darkness into light. 

Hail, thou Queen of Southern beauty! 

Decked with jewels rich and rare; 
Wisdom, honor, love, ambition, 

Dwell beneath thy golden hair. 



POEMS. 67 

CAN YOU BLAME ME? 

We have looked on each other too oft in this life — 
Your smiles from my eyes were not hid — 

Can you blame me for loving your matchless face 
As fondly and dearly as I did ? 

The memory of your dark blue, passionate eyes, 

Oh, say, can I ever get rid 
Of that heavenly dream, and the sunlight of love, 

That so tenderly shown from each lid. 

Prom that streamlet of love in your beautiful heart 

How sweet if my soul could but drink, 
And bathe 'mid the lilies in its crystal waters, 

And rest on its moss-cover'd brink. 



HOW SWEET. 

How sweet when our lonely soul grows weary, 

And our tired feet need rest, 
To recline 'neath the shade of the willow tree, 

Pillow'd on a maiden's breast. 

To feel a passion pure within us, 
And not the one that seeks to rob 

That beautiful virtue underlying 
Her peaceful bosom's honest throb. 

To know you can withstand temptation, 
And cause no pang of pain and grief 

To wound that breast resigned to you, 
As spotless as the lily's leaf. 



68 POEMS. 

FEW WOULD RETURN. 

Few are they that have journey'd here below 
Who have not seen their brightest hopes decay — 

That would retrace their steps from youth to age, 
And see again those fond hopes pass away. 

Few are they that would return in life, 

No matter how bright their journey may have been, 
And travel the same old familiar path, 

And view and love again what they could never win. 

Few are they that would consent to go 

Back to the shrine where they knelt in other days, 

And loved and lost, and spent their after years 

In the mem'ry of some harp-string's plaintive lays. 

Few are they that would tread the rugged path 
That leads adown the valley of grief and care, 

And see again what their own eyes have seen. 
And shed, alas! the same embitter'd tear. 

Few are they that would retrace life's path, 
No matter how bright its sun or sweet its dew — 

The hand of love would be a withered hand. 
And the bosom of truth would beat, alas! untrue. 



I'D RATHER OWN HER LOVE. 

I'd rather own the love of that modest little maiden 
Who lives in a lonely cottage between two gentle rills, 

Than to win the greatest fame all this world can give, 
Or own the fatted cattle on a thousand grassy hills. 



POEMS. 

I DISLIKE A VAIN AND HAUGHTY MAN. 

If I must rise by haughty steps 

To the goldc}ii heights that lead to fame, 

Then I prefer to remain below, 

Behind an humble. Christian name. 

I dislike a vain and haughty man, 
However bright his future may be; 

He must lie down within the dust, 
And lay aside his vanity, 

I'm sorry for that mortal man 
Who treads up )n God's holy clay, 

Too vain to lend a helping hand 
To one that has fallen by the way. 

if I should rise to lofty heights, 
An humble heart shall be thereon; 

And tho^ you may be far below, 
Remember, you I shall not scorn. 

For what tho' I obtain the praise 
Of human lips both far and wide, 

A worm of dust I still must be, 
Drifting on life's gloomy tide. 



LIVE HONEST; BE KIND. 

Much thought and the pen will accomplish all things, 
You must think and be wise in the thought you pursue- 

Liive honest, be kind, and you'll surely succeed. 

And the world be made brighter by having known you. 



70 P OEMS. 

THE DAY8 OF MY YOUTH. 

(On re-visiting the home of my boyhood.) 
Would that the friends I loved in youth 

Were close beside me here to-day, 
On this loved spot where we once played 

When our hearts were young and gay. 

How sweet would be each moment now, 

If I but only once again 
Could form the self-same group beside 

These violets in the lane. 

'Hound this hallow'd spot there float 

Sweet memories of the past, 
Of dear associations gone — 

They were too fond to last. 

'Twas 'neath this drooping willow tree 

I ^at alone — without a name^ — 
At school with nature's God to learn 

The hidden path that leads to fame. 

'Twas here I lingered in the twilight 

With no teacher at my knee 
Save kind Nature with her flowers, 

And a bosom full and free. 

Full and free with radiant hope 

Like a ray of glorious light, 
Pointing this young and tender heart 

To the path of Truth and Right. 

* The author never was named in childhood by his'parents, but was 
left the pleasure of selecting his given-name at the age of fourteen. 



POEMS. 

'Twas heve I lenrned that solemii truth 
That the life to pleasure given 

Will never reach its shiuir^g goal 
On this bright side of heaven. 

Each violet as it bloomed beside 
My humble feet in morning dew, 

Taught me that the purest, noblest life, 
Must be begun when hope is new. 



ON THE DEATH OF EDGAR W. NYE. 

How strange is Nature! and the workings 
Of the great invisible God 

Whose doings are just and right; 
Who preserves the spark that ne^er can glow — 
The dullest of liumankind — 

Yet quenches the brightest light. 

How strange, indeed, and wondrous wise 
Must be that gracious Hand 

Whose works we can ne'er undo, 
That it should spare the dull, illiterate mind 
Rather than the flame of genius 
Is alas! too sadly true. 

Can it be Death ? — Shall we not hear again 
In eternity — some where — 

The voice of him who once spake 
To cheer the gloomy lives of humankind? 
Bringing joy and gladness 

To hearts that fain would break. 



72 . P O E M S . 

UNFORGIVEN— ADIEU ! 

Good-by I — another sun is sinking. 
Shedding its golden beams about 

Our youthful feet — 
I stand ^neath the canopy of heaven 
Close by your side, but unforgiven 

By your lips sweet. 
'Tis true I may have caused you pain, 
And your swett eyes sometimes a tear 

To dim their hue; 
But you, in youth's sweet bloom I trust 
Will not esteem me e'er unjust — 

My heart untrue. 
For I, as sure as yonder sun 

Scatters its crimson on your cheeks, 

Have loved your heart ; 
Have shielded you amid life's fears, 
Helped you to dry your bitterest tears — 

Yet we must part! 
Can you, as mem'ry calls you back 
To the happy moments we've spent upon 

Yon dewy hill, 
Kow deem this heart too false and low 
To be looked upon, save as a foe 

You'd gladly kill? 
'Twas there, amid the dew of heaven, 
I held your gentle hand too oft 

To deem you false; 
I've always found you pure and chaste ; 
Mao's arms have ne'er entwined your waist- 

You did not "waltz.'' 




UNFORGIVEN— ADIEU ! 



But still you unforgiving stand. 
Turning from me those gentle eyes, 
So sweet and ti-ue. 



POEMS. 75 

But still you unforgiving stand, 
Turning from me those gentle eyes, 
80 sweet and true ; 
You have suggested that we should part, 
Then here's my hand— you have my heart — 
. Good-by ! adieu ! 



CHRIST ON CALVARY. 

See him as he hangs beside the guilty thieves, 
Reviled, condemned, and forever cast aside; 

See him as he views his well-beloved friends. 
Thirsting for the blood of his own precious side. 

See his hands thro' which the nails were driven, 
The accursed nails by an unrelenting Jew^; 

Hear his voice, as he views the cruel throng: 
'^Father forgive them, for they know not what they do." 

See the sharp spear as it glistens in the light 
Of the self-same sun that shines on you and me; 

See it pierce his pure and spotless side. 

Hear the warm blood as it trickles down the tree. 

Hear him as he groans in agony and pain 
As he views his friends in the condemning throng; 

Those who cast green palms beneath his feet 
As down to Jerusalem he passed along. 

See him as he hangs, a pure and sinless soul, 
Reje(;ted, accursed— for many an oath was hurl'd 

On him who died on Calvary's tree 
To redeem forever a sin cursed w^orld. 



76 POEMS. 

WHEN WE WERE YOUNG. 

Oh, lovely form, begirt in life's resplendent morn 

With flowers too purv3 to bloom around rnv' way vr.ird fe^^t, 

I look on thee, only to repeat those fitting vows 
I oft have vowed — that we no more should meet. 

Upon yon hill — if thon'U consent to there retrace 
Our footsteps made in the sands of other years — 

I'll carry thee back, away acros-i yon sparkling rill 

To the lonely heights where we shed our first sad tears. 

The dew is there — upon the grass leaves hang the drops, 
And the flowers have drank thereof till thiy are sweet — 

'Twill but remiiid us of those moments long since gone, 
When the same sweet drops once cooled our burning fejt. 

W^hen we were young, imd the first sweet beam of hope 
Glowed warm and true within each peaceful breast, 

And love supreme was an ever-present guest, 
Save in that still hour when passion broke our rest. 

Oh, why was that burning spirit lingering there, 
Melting our hearts into one imperfect heart ? 

And bearing that bliss whicii sin too often bears 
To hearts that are as one, and cannot beat apart. 



IN ATLANTA 

Let me rest ""mid the atmosphere I love, 
And my last repose will be sweet, serene; 

I love that beautiful love that lives- 

For one whom the eyes have never seen. 



POEMS. 77 

TO ONTE WHO IS ALL LOVELINESS. 

From thy eyes, as from the sunlight beaming 
O'er the distant hills tinged with autumn's liue^ 

I catch the gleam of love so long enticing 
My very soul into a haven sweet and new. 

Sweet and new — a home of tenderness, 

'Round whose shrine no shadows ever rest; 

But love supreme in all its gentleness 
Fills the sweet chamber of thy snowy breast. 

I love the sunlight 'round thy placid brow, 

And the smiles that linger on each dimpled cheek; 

They draw me up, as sunbeams draw the flower. 
And make me strong when I am truly weak. 

I love thy hand, so firm in truthfulness. 
So kind and gentle in its every sphere — 

To know thy bisom is all constancy, 

While mine's so fickle — is more than I can bear. 

Had thy fair face been veiled before mine eyes, 
And only thy faint voice my ears did greet ; 

Then I had learned what now I truly know, 

That thou art all love, and gentleness complete. 



FAREWELL! FOR A TIME. 

Farewell, sweet Muse! my dearest companion. 
Thou hast given this heart no feeling of pain ; 

Some day, ere the setting of life's purple sun. 

When my pathway is brighter, I'll recall thee again. 



7H POEMH. 

FAREWELL, SWEET COLLEGE GIKL! 

Farewell, ye milk-white dove, farewell! 

This parting gives me pain ; 
To think, perhaps, I ne'er shall see 

Thy gentle form again. 

Farewell ! — but thy sweet blooming face. 

Fresh as the dewy morn. 
Will leave its impress on this heart 

Long after thou art gone. 

Farewell ! and if e'er thine azure eye& 

Shall feel the dint of care. 
Look up to Him whose loving hand 

Will dry each bitter tear. 

Farewell, ye milk-white dove, farew^ell I 

If on earth we meet no more, 
May in that snow-white throng of love 

We meet on yonder shore. 



MARRIAGE AND DEATH. 

Marriage and death — these great events in life, 
Alas ! with each other are blended; 

A festive scene and a funeral march, 
And man's brief journey is ended. 

A marriage puff, and a funeral notice 

Is the end of his transient tale. 
And he vanishes from human sight 

Beyond life's dark and gloomy veil. 



POEMB, 79 

SIDE BY SIDE, SOME BAY, 

You may laugh at affliction, 
And shun the poor wretch 

As he drags along life's rugged way; 
But remember, your feet 
Now nimble and strong, 

May be withered and weary some day. 

You may spurn the poor wretch 
Whose garments are torn, 

But whose heart may be honest and true; 
Y^et think of this well, 
As sure as you live 

Some affliction will fall upon you. 

Should he come to your chamber 
On a cold winter night 

You would surely turn him away; 
Little thinking that you 
Must sleep by his side 

Some day in the mouldering clay. 



SHE'S ILL, 

This (yhristmas, with all its mirth and joy, 

Will not be enjoyed by me, 
For the one whom I love is ill at her home 

On the banks of the Congaree. 

How could I join in the circle of pleasure, 

Tho' ever-so enticing it be, 
While my dear little lady lies ill at her home 

On the banks of the Congaree, 



8(1 POEMS. 

1 CANNOT THINK THAT I'LL BE LOST FOREVER. 

I cannot think that I'll be lost forever 

For the little sins that swell this human breast 

While in this transitory life 
Where I have never had a day of peace and rest. 

I cannot think that in this cloudy world 
Where T exist 'mid its many, many cares, 

That after death I'll be borne away 
By an unforgiving hand that wipes away no tears. 

I cannot think that in this world of sin 

Where I was forced without my own consent/ 

That I'll be dcom'd to hell at last, 
Without a second chance to e'er repent. 



TO AMY. 

I will drink to your health, sweet Amy, 
For there's nothing in this cup, I fear/ 

That would be suggestive of sorrow 
For my own sweet Amy, dear. 

May your heart be pure and noble, 
And your arm be firm and strong, 

And your hope be like the rainbow, 
Beautiful, bright and long. 

May your life, like the rose of summer, 
Be fresh, and remain in its bud, 

As I never was partial to whiskey, Amy, 
1^11 toast you in Congaree mud. 



(FOURTH VOLUME.) 



DEDICATED TO THE SONS AND DAUGHTEE8 
OF SOUTH CAROLINA. 

The Author. 



82 P O E M 8 . 



SOUTH CAROLINA. 



Thou fond home of our early childhood days, 

On thy loved soil we've spent our happiest hours; 

We've basked in the beams of thy noon-tide sun. 
And have sat in the shade of thy sweet bowers. 

Upon thy hills, in youth and manhood years, 

WeVe bathed in the dew of thy resplendent morn ; 

The flowers that bloom'd beside our youthful feet 
To mem'ry have grown sweeter — none are gone. 

Beside thy streams we've caught the pleasant sound 
Of rippling waters, fl >wing onward to the sea — 

The most familiar, on which we fain would dwell, 
Is thy fair stream, the beautiful Congaree. 

In thy green fields, from early morn till eve, 
We've seen the ploughman till thy fertile soil — 

When the autumn leaves 'round his path w^ere strewn 
We've seen him gather the fruit of his honest toil. 

In thy cool meadows we've heard the happy notes 
Of sweet birds mingled with the pleasant sound 

Of the distant bells of the approaching herd. 
Whose nimble footsteps were heard upon the ground. 

On thy sweet lawns we've viewed the perfect form 
Of the angel who sat beneath thy shady trees. 

Fairer than the blushing r )se of early spring. 
Made lovelier by thy pure and balmy breeze. 

'Round thy hearth, beside thy happy shrine, 
We've bowed, but have shed no guilty tear — 

The life we've spent upon thy peaceful soil 
Has been too calm to e'en suspicion fear. 



POEMS. 88 

TO THE YOUNG UNJUST CRITIC. 

(^hallen^e me to fight on the open field, 

And hurl at my head the fiery dart, 
R-Hther than belittle the gentle muse 

That issues from this lonely heart. 

Yonng man — you who never aspired 
To soar no higher than where you are — 

As no ambition burns within you, 
Try not to extinguish another^s star. 

In you there may much genius be — 

A gift that often leads to fame 
If used aright — but you are dead 

To that true sense which makes a name. 

If you in your self-wisdom feel 

Constrained to criticise my muse, 
Let it be just, and then you may 

Just criticise it when you choose. 



COLUMBIA. 

Beautiful city, with thy cool, shady groves, 
And picturesque hills, and sweet-scented bowers, 

Where the sweet dews of heaven in the stillness of morn 
Refresh the pure lips of thy innocent flowers. 

'Round thy houses and lawns there's a sunbeam of love, 
And a gleam of sweet peace encircles thy walls; 

True Friendship and Love is the motto that hangs 
O'er the broad-open'd door to thy peace-laden halls. 



84 POEMS. 

WE PART TO-NIGHT. 

We part to-night — perhaps it may be well 
To sever the tie that bore that magic spell 

Ere my heart grew wild ; 
We've naught to regret, for we've loved each other 
As fondly and dearly as a devoted mother 

For her absent child. 

We part in peace — never to meet again 
As oft Wc3Ve met down in the grassy lane 

'Neath fragrant bowers, 
Where the dew of heaven, fresh and sweet 
As that of love, fell 'round our feet 

In the morning hours. 
We shed no tears — for tears can never rise 
From a still fount to lonely beaming eyes 

When fond love is gone; 
We loved once, and can never love again. 
That love has cost us many an aching pain 

Since sweet hope has flown. 
We'll meet no more — not In this vale of tears 
Where we have spent so many changing years 

Of sunshine and frost ; 
So let it be — for soon we two shall hide 
In the cold tomb — no longer to abide 

Where we've loved and lost 



THAT ROSE. 

So charmingly beautiful. 
Seemingly kind; 

So sweet was that rose 
I wished it was mine. 



POEMS, Wi 

A VIOLET AND A JONQUIL, 

A poor little violet once blooru'd in the morn, 
But it fell from Mie jar, and is faded and gone, 
And to-day it lies trodden deep under men's feet. 
Its color unnatural^ its odor iinsweet. 

Close by the violet, as if under its care. 
Grew a little white jonquil, unconscious of fear; 
Its hue was perfect as the leaf of the rose. 
And its delicate odor was sweet to the nose, 

A twig struck the violet one night in a storm, 
Parched and dry — the night was so warm — 
And the sweet little jonquil, so pure from its birth, 
Was jarred by the twig, and fell to the earth. 

So the poor little violet, and the bud by its side, 
Fell deep in the slums together and died; 
And the old earthen jar sits empty to-day, 
The violet and jonquil are strewn by the way. 



THE PAST, 

As I turn and listen to the Past 
I hear the echo sweet and low 

Of some dear voice, floating still 
In the festive halls of long ago. 

I catch a glimpse of parting scenes, 
Familiar in the days gone by; 

The happy face, the winning smile, 
The mem'ry of some pensive eye. 



m POEMS, 



TO MIS8 MATTIE SUE . 

As the sunimer sunbeams 
Peep (rer the distant hills 

On some sweet and lonely broolwy 
So my weary, long-ing eyes, 
Warm with the dew of love, 

To thee alone do look. 

On thy rose-bud cheeks 
Girlhood's sweetest smiles 

In brightest hope do beam, 
And thy lovely azure eyes 
Endear my only hope 

And fondest day*dream. 

Of thy plaintive voice 
I hear an echo sweet 

Sinking deep into my heart, 
And that peaceful echo 
Bears the enchanting bliss 

Which death alone can part. 



THE DECEIVER. 

He who lays his body down. 
Hopeless for eternity — 

An unbeliever — 
Will sooner Und a place of re»fe 
Beyond this vale of tears, 

Than the deceiver. 



POEMS. S7 

I LOVE THY SHADES. 

Sweet Solitude — I love to spend each quiet hour 
in the lone shades of thy sweet bower 

Beside yon rill, 
And gazing, with a blessed regard 
On Nature, I commune with God, 

And learn His will. 

I love thy shades — 'tis there alone I learn 
Myself — the faintest sparks that in ine burn 

Are kindled by thee; 
In life's dark cell where sunlight fades 
I gather hope from thy sweet shades — 

My souTs set free. 



TO A VAIN MORTAL. 

Vain mortal of a common clay 
From many sins you may be free, 

But that which holds the greatest sway 
Within your life — is vanity. 

Some little deed you may have done. 
Or perhaps some simple word or hint 

Has placed your common name upon 
Some written page, or in public print. 

So, proud you stand with lifted cane. 
Like a wood-cock on a cypress log— 

The deed that has made you vain could have 
Been performed by a shepherd dog. 



P O E INI S . 



MY LASSIE AND I. 

I love the winding piith that leads beside tlie old familiar 

wood, 
Where 1 used to roam with a country lass who wore an 

ancient hood ; 
Who uj-ed to take my little hand within her own with care, 
And lead me thro' the meadow hay,spcaking- words of cheer. 

My youthful life had almost passed that sweet and happy 

stage 
Where ihe heart is fiee frcni trouble and fc-rgetful of old 

a^e— 
Sweet violets bloom'd beside that path, but none was half so 

fair 
As my little la^s with rosy cheeks and downy auburn hair. 

At evening twilight oft we'd sit and hold each other's hand, 
And speak of love Lut that strange term I could not under- 
stand, 
For I was young, as T have said, and slie extremely fair — 
Both acted like summer doves — a quite familiar pair. 

Oft while the nioor.l cam's silvery rays played 'round our 

careless feet 
I'd turn and kiss my lassie's lips so gentle and so sweet — 
To kiss that lassie, I'll confess, 'twas then I did not loath, 
For I was young and she was fair, so please excuse us both. 

A thousand glances I have caught from that sweet lassie's 

eyes. 
And half as many times we've kissed beneath the star-lit 

skies; 
But now^ her glances are ne)t mine, for slie is far away^ 
Kissing e)ther lips than these, in some sweeter meadow^s hay. 



POEMB. ^ 

THE GRAVE WHERE A WOMAN LIES. 

I stood alone at the close of day 

As the sunl)eam^s soft and golden rays 

Lit up the eastern skies, 
On a lonely hill by a grassy mound 
Long neglected and forgotten — 

The grave where a woman lies. 
A woman once sought in early years 
For the charms of her matchless face, 

Dark hair and sparkling eyes; 
On whose fair cheeks was the rosy tint 
Of youth — like the rainbow's placid hues 

Bright'ning the eastern skies. 
The peaceful rays of the summer sun 
Shone softly 'round her lonely bed 

On each sad close of day — 
Tliey seem'd to glow in grander beams 
'I'han those on the shining marble 

Where purer ashes lay, 
A lesson of love those sunbeams taught, 
Of love impartial, just and true, 

From the Lamb of Calvary, 
Who, when called upon to act as judge 
Of a woman whom the world condemn'd, 

Said, ''Nay, I'll not condemn thee.'^ 
Would that these lips that ne'er had spoken 
To slander that once most perfect name, 

Could call her back again, 
And placing the hand of love in her's 
I'd learn how freely Christ forgives 

And cleanses the deepest stain. 



90 POEMS. 



BESFDE LFFPrS OCKAN. 

As I stand beside life's ocean, 
While tiie moments pass away, 

I can feel my weary feet 
Sinking in the miry clay. 

As I gaze upon its billows, 
Dashing, foaming as they roll, 

I can almost feel them surging 
O'er my very inmost soul. 

Lone and weary I am standing, 
Drenched by ev'ry troubled wave, 

Waiting to be dashed forever 
In the cold and silent grave. 

Ev'ry billow has its sorrow, 
And its flow of briny tears, 

Which were gather'd from my cradle 
To my life's meridian years. 

Tho' I stand alone, rejected, 
On its shore, and cast aside, 

Yet my hope shall find a haven 
Beyond its dark and gloomy tide. 



'TIS BETTER IT WAS SILENT. 

'Tis better this hand was silent, 
This mind obscure and weak. 

Than it should pen a single line 
These lips would dare not speak. 



POEMS. 91 



A TREE OF VARIED FRUITS AND BUBS. 

(On meeting a veiy handsome lady whom the author once knew and 
loved in early years, hut at this meeting she was accompanied by two 
beautiful black-eyed girls, about three an^ five summers, respectively — 
her own buds.) 

This life's a tree; we sit beneath its branches, 
And view the tlowers and fruits we still would gather; 

Fruits of varied seasons, and of purest kind, 
Flowers that have bloomed sweetest in wintry weather, 

Upon each branch there are many opening buds 

Of every hue to please the human naind, 
The luscious fruit of a score or more of years 

We view beside those buds till we are blind. 

Alas! how strange that we should thus behold 
The fruit weVe loved in other sunny years 

Still fair and beautiful, and nursing many buds, 
Some for joy and some for bitter tears. 

But yesterday, 'twas mine to view two tender buds 
On this sad tree, on which I'm loath to dwell ; 

They were blooming beside a pure and early fruit 
Which I fain would have plucked — I loved it so well. 



WHERE VANITY PUFFS THE HEART. 

True love will die in palace halls 
Where vanity puffs the heart, 

'Twas only made for nature's walks — 
Her paradise of art. 



§9 POEMS 



CONCEITED. 



Fair lady, your remarks have caused me to bGlieye 
Your lieart is all vanity, and beats to deceive; 
But for the sympathy [ cherish for you, 
I'll merely inform you, those remarks are untrue. 

Far be it from me, fair one, to intrude. 
Or act toward you "too forward and rude" — 
Tho' your face has for me a beauty untold, 
Yet I'm not anxious that face to behold. 

Fair one, your acquaintance has never been sought 
By me— not in action, or even in thought, 
80 if ever those slanderous words you repeat, 
Let it be at your home, and not on the street. 



THE FIRST RAY OF HOPE. 

How sweet is the first bright ray of hope 
When youth's sweet bloom is on the cheeks, 

And there's music in the breeze, 
And the violet blooms beside the wood, 
And the lily waves beneath the bay, 

And the budding heart's at ease. 



INGRATITUDE. 

Ingratitude, ah, I hate it, 
I'm loath for a moment to dwell 

On a word whose only meaning 
Originated in hell. 



POEMS. m 

THE COMING BARD. 

When your life-song shall have ended, 
And with grief its echo's blended 

O'er your lone head; 
Then will some plaintive notes res )und 
O'er this cold, unhallow'd grjund, 
Your final bed. 

Home sweet bard shall then arise 
And float his muse unto the skies, 

While angels sing 
The anthem of a purer soul 
Than yours, whose sentiments unroll 

No sacred thing. 

On ev'ry hi 11- top far and near 

He'll sing that sinful hearts might hear 

His sweet refrain; 
Ail men will b >w before his face. 
Whose winning smiles and perfect grace 

Dispel all pain. 



AUTUMN. 

The lilies and violets have faded and gone, 
The hills and the meadows are drear and lone, 

The leaves are falling, 
Filling our pathway sure and fast, 
Telling our souls, they'll soon be cast 

Beyond recalling. 



U VO E M S . 

THE PAST— TURN THE PAGE! 

Turn the page!— for grief and disappointment 
On its once smooth surface 

Now appears; 
On its margin are fingerprints 
Made dingy by the bitter drops 

Of many tears. 

Teaks— that dew on which I would not dwell, 
80 strange their inward meaning — 

So very deep; 
J would not dwell upon them now, 
Yet o^er this page I still must bend, 

And still must weep. 

Turn the page! — for between each written line 
Remorse, in crimson doth appear 

In brilliant rays; 
Remorse— for 'mid life's changing scenes 
My life was spent — I dare not tell — 

In many ways. 



ON TO ETERNITY. 

As I look around me I see moving 
Slowly and unconsciously 
Thousands of immortal souls 
On to eternity; 
The youthful, the gay and beautiful 
Form an innumerable caravan, 
Keeping step by the drum-beat 
Of inexorable Time. 



POEMS. 05 

FROM THE PALA(^E TO THE WOODLAND. 

'Tis pleasant to descend from lofty heights 
And view this world as a little child; 

To leave the stately palacci walls 

And roam within the w v)odland wild. 

To gather sweet violets here and there, 
And view the cows go sauntering down 

To quench their thirst at a sparkling stream — 
Away from the busy, noisy town. 

To recline upon a grassy mound 

Beside some pure and quiet brook ^ 
And gather wisdom, comfort, peace, 

From the pages of some sacred book. 

To feel that you are only mortal, 

A little worm of common clay, 
Helpless— waiting, hoping, trusting, 

For a home of brighter day. 

To lay aside all sinful passions 

That have made life's journey hard; 

To gaze into the open heavens 
And find communion with your God, 



THE DUDE, 

Young man, of your worth you never can boast, 
To society true you are virtually dead, 

Because you have played the dude so long, 
With but little heart and an empty head. 



96 rOKMS. 

THE LOVER'S EETURN ON A BICYCLE. 

ADMITTED, BUT NOT ACCEPTED. 

Away down 'neath the Southern pine 
Where the jessamine and the ivy twine, 

And violets bloom; 
Where no fierce winds, cold and bleak^ 
Touch the maiden's blushing cheek, 

And there's no gloom. 

A dove-like form was seen to float — 
Like the white sail of some tiny boat — 

Adown the hill ; 
Nearer and nearer drew the form,* 
Like a dove in a summer storm. 

Tossed at will. 

A maiden fair soon came in sight 

With cheeks aglow and countenance bright^ 

And slender form ; 
Her white hands held the handle bars, 
Her eyes were like two lovely stars — 

Cheeks bright and warm. 

Adown a steep incline she sped, 
The golden tresses on her head 

Fanning the breeze ; 
Heedless of the danger near, 
Her youthful heart knew no fear — 

Beneath the trees. 

Her charming steel-horse could hot miss 
A steep and dangerous precipice 



POEMS. 97 

By the river's bank; 
Along she flew— a fearful sight — 
Like a bird wounded in its flight 

8he downward sank. 

Many an anxious eye drew near, 
And gazing with a sense of fear, 

Looked here and there; 
Ko wounded form could there be found, 
Nor trace of blood seen on the ground. 

Of the maiden fair. 

For safe below the rough incline 

She passed beneath the Southern pine— 

Her charming wheel 
Xev^er faltering, stood it all, 
Thus saving her from a fatal fall 

By its perfect steel. 

Away beyond she swiftly flew 

Thro' grasses wet with summer's dew, 

O'er turf and stone, 
Toward a dreary cottage-door, 
Whose moss bespoke of inmates poor, 

And very lone. 

Soon she reached this home of gloom, 
Alighted near its western room — 

Sat down to rest 
On an ancient settee, roughly made, • 

Within the live-oak's gentle shade, 

And soothed her breast. ■ 



POEMS. 

There in the coo! and halmy breeze 
That wafted sweetness from the trees 

On hills afai% 
8he sat alone, like an angel fair, 
Thinking of him, her fondest care, 

And constant star. 

Toward the house she calmly stroll'd, 
As if no one should her behold 

Seeking those walls ; 
While gently tapping on the door 
Footsteps were heard upon the floor 

Within its halls. 

Familiar were those footsteps too, 
Whose sound to her had music true — 

Sweet and sublime ; 
Confusion seem'd to swell each hall, 
As if no visitors called at all — 

At any time. 

But soon the ancient cottage door 
With rusty hinges, scraped the floor. 

And opened wide ; 
Before her fair face bending low 
Stood a wreck of that most bitter flow — 

Affection's tide. 

For on this strangely ebbing tide 
Many a hope sublime hath died 

In the human breast; 
A "moving tomb-stone," cold, defaced, 
Is all that shows where love was placed 

Forever to rest. 



POEMS. 99 

Affection ! ah, that transient thing 

From which lifers lasting troubles spring, 
By love is taught 

First to adore, and then to spurn, 

Causing the human heart to burn 
With bitter thought. 

Love is its mother — 'tis her son, 

Whose warmth is like the rays of sun, 
Fading, dying; 

A season of but fleeting bliss, 

A dream of one eternal kiss- 
Hope belieing. 

While standing nigh his bended form 
8he whispered words of friendship warm, 

But all in vain ; 
She press'd his cold hand to her cheek 
So warm and pure — he could not speak. 

So deep the pain. 

There^s always pain in meeting one 
Who was once the lovely rising sun. 

Within your heart; 
In ev'ry look and ev'ry word 
There's a glance retain'd, an echo heard 

You cannot part. 

While gazing on her lovely face. 

He admired her gentle, winning grace, 

So sweet and pure; 
And wonder'd how her angel-hand 
Could e'er have broken love's sacred band 

Once firm and sure. 



100 POEMS 

With cheeks aglow and ghinces warm, 
As siinheams when the summer storm 

Had passed away, 
8he looked on him, for she had learnVl 
To love the heart she oft had spurn'd 

Each fleeting day. 

While gazing on her face so sweet, 
He invited her to take a seat 

Within the hall ; 
Seating himself beside her there 
He thought it niught but just and fair 

To tell her all :— 

"I loved you once, oh, pretty one, 
You were to me the rising sun 

Of perfect bliss ; 
My hope was built on nothing more 
Than youks, whose beam I did adore. 

And loved its kiss." 

"That love was true, you knew full well, 
Truer than human lips could tell — 

I loved your name; 
To your sweet life I did impart 
My hope, my all, my very heart, 

My life, my fame." 

''While you were nigh my path was peace, 
My joy and bliss seem'd ne'er to cease- 
Sweet rest was mine ; 
My hope was like the sunbeam's ray, 
My life like an unclouded day, 
Of purest sunshine." 



POEMS. 101 

**Your smiles to me were softer far 
Than the silvery light of the purest star 

In heaven's skies; 
You were my all, my guiding light, 
Whose glances were my chief delight, 

From holy eyes." 

*^But since that peace for which I sighed 
Has passed away with hope and died 

A death of pain ; 
Words now from you tend more to break 
This heart you never can awake — 

Never again." 

*'My heart is on an unknown sea, 
Far from the love you bore for me — 

My first and last; 
Love's gentle tide has ebbed away, 
Life has no boon for me to-day, 

Its summer's past." 

'Tis strange the human heart should learn 
To loath the love that would return 

And seek its breast ; 
And stranger 'tis that love should seek 
Acceptance in that bosom weak 

It robbed of rest. 

As she thought of his youthful heart so lone, 
8he wonder'd if it was like stone, 

So very cold; 
She laid her warm hand on his cheek, 
He gazed on her; but could not speak — 

All had been told. 



102 POEMS. 

She simply said, "Forgive me, dear? 
Let all your sorrows, ev^ry care, 

By ME be borne ; 
Ne'er again in this weak heart of mine 
Will my fond feelings for you decline 

On love's sweet throne. 

"I know that I've been in the wrong, 
And treated you unkind too long, 

These many years ; 
In your past love I'll firmly trust, 
That love to me was ne'er unjust, 

Or caused me tears." 

His weary hand she gently raised. 
And pressing it to her lips, she praised 

His love again ; 
^he lingered with a painful smile, 
Hoping his heart would all the while 

Be free from pain. 

He thanked her, bowed his head and wept 
O'er the love that had in her bosom slept 

Many a year. 
Those tears to her were strange she knew ; 
Naught else than love's eternal dew 

Embalm'd in care. 

Away from this lone cottage door 
She tried to pass, but felt the more 

Like lingering there ; 
The thought that she fore'er must part 



POEMS. 103 



From him her life, \uiv very heart, 
She could not bear. 

Fresh from the bosom of her grief 
Came bitter tears, but no relief 

From her sad night; 
She slowly passed fronri this lone door, 
Mounted her wheel — to return no m ire- 

And took her flight. 



HOW DEEP THE MYSTERY! 

If I should ask this silver coin 
That lies within my hand to-day, 

"Tell me thy history ?'' 
And it should speak; alas I how strange, 
Would each sad word sound in my ear — 

How deep the mystery I 

■5t ^ ^ * -5^ 

Would it not tell the sick'ning truth 
Of some fair one in the bloom of youth 

Whom it had led astray ? 
How it partly paid for the shining band 
That bought sweet virtue from the hand 

Now silent 'neath the clay. 



Though a stranger, I loved thee, 
Thou wert near to my heart — 

I fain would have met thee, 
But I knew we must part. 



104 POEMS. 

ON THE BANKS OF THE CONGAREE. 

Many a blissful hour I've spent 
^Mid the shade of the willow tree. 

Watching the smoothly flowing waters 
Of the beautiful Congaree. 

Many a Sabbath hour I^ve sat 
With little Maud beside my knee, 

Gazing o'er the distant hills 
On the banks of the Congaree. 

Many a happy smile I've seen 

On her sweet face, so pure and free,- 

While sitting in the willow's shade 
On the banks of the Congareei 

Many a balnny kiss I've stolen 
From precious lips, too pure for me, 

While caressing lovely little Maud 
On the banks of the Congaree. 

Many a charming glance I've seen 

I nevermore will see, 
While sitting beside my gentle Maud 

On the banks of the Congaree, 

But now those blissful days are gone, 
The willow only stands to tell 

Of the pleasant hours I once enjoy'd 
With little Maud I lovtd so well. 

For she in youth and be^iuty died, 
And I shall see her face no more; 

She sits by a lovelier river, 'neath 
Some shady palm on the other shore. 




ON THE BANKS OF THE CONGAREE. 



But now those blissful days are gone. 
The willow only stands to tell 

Of the pleasant hours I once enjoy 'd 
With little Maud I loved so welL 



POEMS. 107 

THE CAUSE OF ANOTHER^S WOE. 

I had rather ]ive a pauper's life, 
My name be unrevered. 

And when I c?ie hellward go, 
Than to bear the consciousness within me 
That I in this life had been 

The cause of another's woe. 

What a sick'ning pang that heart must feel 
That knows itself a robber 

Of some pure and virtuous name; 
Earth's softest water ne'er can cleanse 
Its stain — nor Lethe's sparkling stream 

The mem'rv of its shame. 



A LOVELY WOMAN'S GLANCE. 

Long mayest thou gaze upon the stars 
That twinkle in yon azure skies. 

But linger not, oh, passionate man, 
Thy gaze in a lovely woman's eyes I 

An army often thousand foes 
Is easier subdued in their advance 

Than the dangerous feeling often borne 
By a lovely woman's melting glance. 



The heart that's quick to love when young 
Will soon grow cold when youth is past, 

For 'mid life's many sterner scenes 
And troubled dreams, love cannot last. 



lOS POEMS 



COLD IN DEATH. 



(On the death of a bright young lady, a student of the Winthrop Nor- 
mal College, who came to her death not long since in this city by being 
run over by an electric car.) 

Cross her hands upon her bosom, 
Smooth back her locks of silken hair; 

Gently fold the shroud around her, 
Tho^ cold in death she's no less fair. 

Lay your hand upon her forehead, 

Sweetly she is resting now ; 
Touch those eyelids, closed to sorrow. 

While sweet peace pervades her brow. 

Kiss the lips that bore no evil. 

As pure as lilies on the lawn ; 
Kiss the cheeks that blossom'd sweetly 

On each lovely zephyr morn. 

Kiss the hands that moved in friendship, 

Stain them with a tear of joy; 
Ask that yours — hands less wfak — 

May some loving deeds employ. 

Kiss the hair that waved in beauty, 
Like hyacinths of sweet perfume; 

Place the white rose on her bosom. 
Soon she'll lie in the silent tomb. 



'Tis strange that you will always find 
In the poorest spot the brightest pearls, 

Ho a poverty-stricken'd land is good 
For naught but raising pretty girls. 



POEMS. im 



TO HELENT. 



(The following poem pleased Helen very much, and it is witli lier con- 
sent I publish it.) 

May you pass o'er the sea of life like a bubble, 
And ne'er reach the mouth of the river of trouble, 
And from the dark clouds that eternally roll, 
May some sweet haven shelter your soul. 

If e'er in the midst of a season of bliss 
Your dear lips burn for a passionate kiss, 
Think of me then, though I distantly roam, 
And reserve me the right till [ visit your home. 

May the joys of your young life b3 witho it measure, 
And not always kindled in the halls of pleasure — 
Tho' the mem'ry of pleasure seems ever si dear, 
After all 'tis but sorrow, and the source of a tear. 

When o'er the gay floor of the ball-room you trip, 
And champagne and wine you carelessly sip, 
Remember, fair Helen, it is after the ball 
That you dream of the moments you would not recall, 

80, now fond Heleu, as I bid you adieu, 

I trust your sorrows of life will be few, 

And you'll return unto ms, like some sweet dove, 

And nestle e)nce m )re on this bosom of love. 



The fairest Hower has its liaw, 
The greenest leaf its yellow vein, 

The brightest eye its faded beam, 
The purest heart a crimson stain. 



1 10 POKMS, 

EULA AND EUNITA, THE TWO ORPHANS. 

They grew up side by side in a cottage by the sea, 
Where tlie ivy and the myrtle entwined the cypress tree ; 
Where the odor of sweet roses perfumed the stilly air, 
And the hyacinth and lily bloomed tenderly and fair. 

They played around the self-same hearth, and 'round the 

loving knee 
Of a fond and happy mother, now sleeping by the sea — 
Enla was as handsome a girl as ever strolled beneath 
The stately cypress or the elm 'round her native heath. 

Her cheeks W( re of that velvet hue that charms the passing 

Her glances like the silvery light of heaven's star-lit sky; 

Her golden locks were charming— like a [crown of purest 

gold— 
Around her snowy neck they waved in an exquisite fold. 

Both were bles-s'd with wealth in girlhood's early years, 
They'd felt no disappointment, vicissitudes or cares ; 
They mingled with the throng of the high-toned and the 

jray, 
To their intellect and beauty men did homage pay. 

Eunila wore a darker shade of that exquisite hair 
1 hat pleases ev'ry eye that longs for the beautiful and fair; 
Her eyes were orbs of beauty, dark and crystal clear — 
They never felt but once of pain and sorrow's bitter tear. 

Her face was grandly formed, with cheeks of richest hue, 

Which hore a gentle smile that told of a disposition true; 

A pha^ant and sweet nature in her could e'er be found — 

She loved the ties of friendship, they 'rapt'd her bosom 
'round. 



POEMB. HI 

In them were fi)UM(! that noble heart that loved the rich and 

poor— 
The latter always found a home within their open'd door — 
The flowers that bl )om3d beside those walls were never 

half so fail- 
As the fragrant buds that bloom'd within s :> tenderly and 

rare. 

Their father, ere the last sweet bud had e'en begun to bloom, 
Was borne away to a grassy hill to moulder in the tomb ; 
Beside that mound an angel-forrei has since b3en laid to 

rest — 
Their mother — oh, what grief must then have swell'd each 

loving breast. 

Alone in this changing world, with not a single tie 

To bind them here, save the friends they held extremely 

nigh — ■ 
No relatives to call their own, save a distant one 
Who lived away beyond their shore, ^neath the Western sun. 

Time! on whose relentless wings life's joys are often borne, 
Soon bore all their wealth away, leaving them here to mourn ; 
Here they lived awhile, but life became so lone and drear, 

They moved away, and rented out the home they loved so 
dear. 

Oft Eula's hand was sought in love, but that, alas! in vain; 
Tho' many worshipped at her shrine, h3r hand they could 

not gain, 
For 'round her heart in other days a pleasant tie did form 
For one whose love was ever thus: constant and warm. 

By his honest heart she was beloved, this she knew full well. 
But in her hardly suited heart no love for him did dwell ; 
To her he was but a faithful friend on whom she could rely; 
*If I marry him," she often said,*'l may love him by-and-by." 



m POEMS. 



They were wedded on a balmy eve in the gentle month of 

May, 
And passed from a distant cottage door— she beautiful and 

gay— 

Now Eula and Eunita are as sad as girls can be, 

For they are living all alone in that cottage by the sea. 



A DIFFERENT TIDE. 

(Written in a very handsome young lady's album the night before her 
marriage, at the hour of twelve.) 

8oon upon lifers fitful ocean 
You shall meet a different tide, 

And your loving bark be drifting 
To perhaps a brighter side. 

Soon the past will be forgotten, 
Its hours absorbed in present bliss; 

But can your loving heart forget 
The rapture of this parting kiss. 

Some day within your memory 
8ome sweet thought of me may glide. 

Of pleasant hours spent together 
Ere you became another's bride. 



TO MARIAN. 

Thou art to me like the memory of a green hill 
Far away, where violets bloom here and there — 

I love that hill,. 'tis therf I used to roam 
Ere I had felt or even dreamed of care. 



POEM 8. lU] 



MY OWN WOELD. 

My life's a world^within my immortal soul 
There's a boundless realm 

No (ther being can control ; 
None can hear, think, or feel for me, 
Be what I have been— and shall be. 

In that strange world I may have oft found rest, 
And at times enjoyed 

Seasons of joy and happiness; 
But if any, alas! they have been few, 
And transient as the d] ops of morning dew. 

And I have been the slave of those creations 
More difficult to subdue 

Than all earth's most hostile nations : — 
Passion, pride, lust—these Nature has secured 
In this weak bosom, and must ever be endured. 

J'm on the throne of Time and Eternity, 
My strange courtiers are 

Sorrow, hope, ambition— all unfit 
To minister unto the sovereign will of one 
Whose life-star is as unchangeable as the sun. 

Around that throne, in darkness and in light, 
I can always behold 

The being whom I once loved, still bright 
And sparkling in the zenith of her pride, 
Loving and being loved— a gentle bride. 



114 POEMS. 

Though in the tomb, neglected 1 shall lie, 
And even forgotten 

By those who once esteemed me high, 
Yet that world of influence naught can dissever, 
It must weary all ages and live on forever. 



THOU OLD HYPOCRITE. 

Oh, thou old gray-haired deceiver. 
Thou expounder of sacred Writ, 

Dost thou not know that God in Heaven 
Dispises the hypocrite ? 

Thou art dead to ev'ry honest thought, 
And soon shall thy days expire; 

Hell will be thy portion, thy reward — 
So prepare to meet its fire. 



WOMAN^S LOVE. 

How strangely warm is woman's love, 
'Tis like summer to the wounded dove; 
In pain and sorrow 'tis just the same 
As on the dewy morn on which it came. 

yes, woman's love, indeed, is sweet, 
Grows stronger when cast 'neath cruel feet; 
'Twill live when other love is gone, 
And comfort on the saddest morn. 



POEMS. 115 



TO MY MOrHER. 



Motlier, is it not in thy sweet name I live, 

And gather within me the richest joys of life? 

Would not hope, love, ambition, all be nothing 
Without thee, and my days be but days of strife? 

Have I not from the careless years of infancy 
1'ill now, honor'd and adored thy precious name? 

Would not this weak and weary heart of mine 
Endure all things to shelter thee from blame ? 

Have r not 'mid the changing scenes of life 
Been always near thee to love thee more and more? 

Have n< t these hands and feet grown truly strong 
In lab )r for thee — thou one whom I adore? 



ONE WHO WOULD LINGER. 

'Tis pleasant to be in a crowd of girls, 
And feel there's one you love the best; 

One who is fair and sweet and kind, 
More beautiful than all the rest. 

To know that her confidence and love 
Is center'd in your wayward heart ; 

To feel that you have one who'd linger 
Should all the other girls depart. 



Ob, jealous heart that seeks to belittle my gentle muse, 
And blow your damnable bugle in my lonely ears; 

You'll lie some day in expressing your recognition 
Of this very song you disowned in other years. 



nc P O E M s 

I^ERHAPS. 

The moon-lit ni^ht was drear and lone, 
I heard a noise on yonder hill; 

A human form came rushing by, 
Then all was cahn and deathly still. 

I recognized the slender form 
Passing from the cedar trees, 

Clad in white, with raven hair 
Floating in the zephyr breeze. 

Her white hands held the tissue folds. 
Thro' whose lace the moonbeams play'd 

Upon her bosom— once so fair — 

Where no wayward hands had stray'd. 

Perhaps the pearly gate of love 
And character was thrown ajar 

To a sinful man— whose deeds the like, 
His character doth seldom mar. 

The white rose decked her raven hair, 
But it had lost its beauty there; 

A smile adorned her face, but not 

Like that which made her once so fair. 

A glance revealed to her the fact 
That she was passing veiy nigh 

To one who had esteemed her pure. 
For reasons I can ne'er deny. 

May be she'd spied some erring man 

Who was seeking straw to make his bed ; 

Or had heard the hoot of the midnight-owl 
In the lonely tree limbs o'er her head. 



POEMS. m 

MORE COSTLY THAN A DIAMOND BTNG. 

Oh, character! thoa ever art 

An holy and an honor'd thing; 
More valuable than life itself, 

More costly than a diamond ring. 

On thy fair finger, lovely maid^ 

Let there no jewel ever be 
If character be put at stake 

For the gem he has given thee. 

Praised it may be by ey'ry one 
Whose eyes may look upon its glow ; 

But if by happiness it be bought, 
Each spark will be a spark of woe. 

Many a glance may linger there, 

In admiration of the gift; 
But, ah, no heart will sympathiz3 

Or from thy soul the burden lift. 

As oft as thou wouldst gaze upon it 
This painful lesson thou must learn : 

Earth^s brightest jewel has its woe 
If PEACE be given in return. 



SOLITUDE. 

The sweetest, dearest spot on earth. 
Where Truth alone is found. 

And no wayward feet intrude, 
Is in that blessed shadow 
Where we learn what we have been, 

And shall be— sweet Solitude. 



ns roKMs, 



MEiMOEIAL DAY IN ( OLUMBIA. 

lOn seeing a number of little girls clad in Avhite inarch to the graves 
of tlie Confederate dead and strew flowers thereon.) 

'Round this halJow'd spot where lie 
The brave, the tiue, the honored dead, 

Let youthliil hands sweet garlands wreathe, 
And strew them o'er each silent head. 

Oh, tender hearts, too young to feel 
The care which bore a soldier's sigh ; 

Gather the roses and strew them o'er 
These graves where truth and honor lie. 



MAN'S LIFE. 

Man's life is but a slender chain 
Whose cold and rusty links 

Contain the deepest mystery; 
Each particle may have its worth, 
But ne'er will it be known to earth 

In the pages of history. 

All save the go( d he may have dene 
In those changing hours 

Since childhood passed away^ 
Lie buried in the mould'ring fohls 
Of Oblivion's cold shroud — 

A monument of clay. 



() that theJiliesand rcses were niine 
Instead of the rak and ivy of life. 



POEMS. 119 

HOW STRA.NGE ARE DREAMS! 

How strange are dreams ! — I dreamed the other night j 

A dream that made me tremble, / 
Not with fear, but a kind of strange reality ; 

My supper, though late, consisted of no cheese, 
No salmonds, pies or wine had passed these lips. \^ 

How strange are dreams! — they carry us far away 

To scenes too long forgotten, 
Away back in our early childhood days, 
Picturing our lives in a pure and simple way, 

Not as they were spent, nor when ; but where. 

How strange are dreams! — they have their boundless world, 

With trees, hills and lakes, 
And flowers of various kinds and hues- 
Spirits of friends and loved ones long departed 

And perhaps too long forgotten— they are there. 

How strange are dreams! — If death be like a dream— 

A pure and happy dream — 
How blissful and sweet must be our final end, 
To emerge from a sinful world to find ourselves 

In dreams— dreaming through all eternity. 



DISSIPATION. 

Of all the sickening feelings 
That swell the human breast, 

And worry the imagination, 
None are so painful to the heart 
As those at early morn 

After a night of dissipation. 



/ 



no POEMS. 

CAliRlER'S ADDRESS. 

OVritteii for The State, Columbia, S, C, December 24th. 1893.) 

*'A merry Christmas, one and all!'^ 
Heed the carrier's earnest call — 
For a service long whet will you do?— 
He simply asks a "gift" of you. 

By daylight damp, and e'en before, 

He has thrown the news before your door, 

And rarely has he e'er been late 

With that welcomed sheet, "The State. '^ 

''The State," that bears the honored seal 
Of truth and justice, firm as steel; 
Whose sentiments of truth will stand 
Till justice permeates our land. 

And while to-day in joy and mirth, 
You gather 'round the family hearth^ 
Give cheerfully, and let it be 
For a service rendered faithfully. 



LITTLE ETHEL W^ . 

Sweet Ethel's years are only six- 
She's just six summers old; 

But mine are twenty-six and one 
Long summers, damp and colil^ 

I love the smiles on Ethel's face^ 
Alas! they are not few— 

To me her azure eyes are like 
Sweet violets filled with dew« 



(THIRD VOLUME.) 



DEDIC ATED TO MY PATRONS THROUGHOUT 
THE NORTH, EAST. AND WEST. 

The Author. 



122 POEMS. 

THE DEATH OF CHARLES A. DANA. 

In all the firmament of the journalistic heavens, 

'Mid the many twinkling stars of less resplendent light 

That scatter their silvery bsams adown its mystic line, 
The grandest literary orb that ever shed its rays 
O'er the green-(5lad hills of this beloved land 

Has withdrawn its face from earth — never again to shine. 

Never again t ) shine in all its full-orbed glory, 
Bearing peace and justice alike to the rich and poor, 

Bright'ning the darkest caverns of the human mind — 
Yet that resplendent glow has left a radiant light 
That will grv)w and brighten as the years roll by, 

And leave a lasting impress on the hearts of mankind. 



MY COUNTRY. 
My Country! I love the stars upon thy glorious banner, 

Long may they shine o'er this my native land, 
And tell to the millions yet unborn to earth 

Of thy glorious freedom won by valor's hand. 



^ 



WOMAN. 

Oh, that inexhaustible subject! 

Filled with celestial fire, 
On which no seraph's song can cease, 

No poet's pen expire. 
Oh, woman, delightful woman ! 

In vain we long to be 
Filled with that ennobling love, 

P\)und alone in thee. 



FM)EMB* 12a 

1*>YR0N. 

Oh, thou immortal hard! 
Men may eoridemn the son": 

That issued from thy heart sublime, 
Yet alas ! its music sweet 
Has left an echo that will sound 

Thro' the lone corridors of Time. 

Thou immortal Byron ! 
Thy inspired genius 

liCt no man attempt to smother — 
May all that was ^ood within thee 
Be attributed to Heaven, 

All that was evil — to thy mother. 



MY LOVELY VENUS. 

Oh, thou, my lovely Venus ! 
If I were a {-tar in the heavens. 

And should on thy countenance shine, 
I would hide my glowing face, 
And fall into nothingness 

At the foot of thy sacred shrine. 



MY COUNTRY. 

My Country! I love thy dewy hills and dales, 
And the buttercups and violets in thy meadows fair, 

I love the balmy breeze from off thy pleasant wood. 
And the sweet notes of birds that swell thy peaceful air. 



124 I* O E M S 



CLOSE BY HER BOSOM. 

Close by her bosom let me sleep 
After I've lain this body down, 

Adown to die ; 
And in stillness sweet, forever 
Beside her pure, angelic form, 

There let me lie. 

Her raven hair may some day grow, 
And like the tender ivy, find 

Some open place 
Beneath the lid of her lone pall. 
And gathering in my grave may cling 

Around my face. 

Plant o'er my head the fragrant rose 
That oft adorned her silken hair, 

That it may wave 
And shed its sweet perfume above 
Her sacred face, beloved, adored, 

Within the grave. 

I'll not hear her gentle voice, 
Nor view her smiling face again, 

While sleeping there ; 
But at the first dawn of the morn 
When we arise, I'll kiss her face. 

And kiss her hair. 

His loving voice will bid us come 
And join the snow-white throng upon 
That golden strand ; 



POEMS, 1-25 

We'll pass within the pe.nrly .ijates 
AihI thro^ the New Jeru«Hleni, 
With hand iu hand. 



TWO LOVED ONES IN HEAVEN, 

(On the death of two lovely girls who passed aw^ay a short time since 
in this city,) 

How dark are the shadows that linger to-night 
'E. )iind the home that was oncj so lovely an 1 hr'ght — 
Death's angel has passed o'er the family hearth, 
And plucked from its circle thj fa're^t of earth, 

A broken-hearted mother sits weeping to-night 
O'er two loved ones far away from her sight ; 

But ehe sees 'nr.id her d.;rkiicss tha beaiitifal light 
Of that Saviour who guided their footsteps aright. 

Sweet Annie and Mary were the treasures of life. 
Whose hearts knew nothing of anger and strife — 
So lovely they were in the morning of youth 
Their faces were beaming with beauty and truth. 

Their days were too few to be ended so soon 

By death's cold hand ere the fullness of noon, 

And e'en tho' fever was burning their cheek 

Of their heavenly home they did frequently speak. 

It was harder than all to whisper farewell 
To these dear ones we hav^e always loved so well; 
To see them depart in their innocent bloom 
In the morning of Hfe^ adown to the tomb. 



ViO POEMS. 

lUit deep in our bosoms their memory'lJ be borne, 
And their faets be to us like the spring-tide inoru- 
Their names will be cherished for that sweet love 
They revealed to man and their Saviour above. 

On s( me .^wcet day wlun this weary life is o'er 
We'll grett their happy smiks on the other sliore- 
And from Annie and Mary who have gone before 
We ne'er again can part— no, never more. 



A BROKEN TIE 

Oh, T'me! the u (hargtr gnd justifier of all things, 
Tell me, thou raven or white-wing'd dove; 

Tell me, while on thy winged wings I soar, 
Shall I e'er ^ee again the object of my love? 

Have I not loved cke beautiful and fair, 
Who in other days lay nearest to my breast ? 

Tell me, w hile on tby^ fletting wings I sigh, 
Shall h( r head e'er again en my bcscm rest ? 

Oh, Time! have 1 not suft'er'd all for her?— 

In memory have I not grief and pain withstood?-— 

Ho])e, love, ambition, have they not all been lost, 
l>uried in her being — the goddess of the good ? 

Have I not seen in youth my fondest hope 
Grow dim and steal away, I know not where? 

(I'rief, ])ain, rcgrtt, have they not turned 
This heart, thesecyes, to one embitter'd tear? 



POEMS. 127 

Tell me! — in thy strange, relentless flight, 
Canst thou not stop to inand a broken tie? — 

That tie is Love and fond Affection 
For HER, the b3autifal, f )r wh )in E sigh. 



JUST SIMPLY GRAND. 

V 

In lovely attitude she stood, 

With beaming face, in a happy mood— 

I wished her mine ; 
Like a crimson rose in the dewy morn 
Her face was fair to look upon — 

So rich, divine. 

I could n't but love her snowy neck, 
In beauty grand, without a speck, 

Or trace at all ; 
And looking then at her pretty feet, 
I praised that lower gift complete 

And very small. 

Like the leaves of the summer rose 
Were her pink cheeks and pretty nose, 

Just simply grand ; 
And looking on her milk-white arms, 
I felt inspired by theit charms. 
And press'd her hand. 



Traveler, view yon lovely mansion 
Won at the cost of a widow's tears — 

Naught but a vacant lot you'll see 
When you come this way in other years. 



T!!S POEMS. 

F00TPJUNT8 BY THE MILL. 

Green is the moss that clusters arouiul 
The door of this lonely old mill; 

I ran see my gentle Mary's foot prints 
Deep traced in the green moss still. 

The old rail fence o'er which she climbVi 

On many a balmy summer day, 
J^ike the dark mill house is cover'd with moss, 

Broken down and mould'ring away. 

Ne'er would I speak of this gloomy old spot 
That contains not a scene that is fair, 

If my Mary-s feet had not linger'd 'round, 
And left their sweet imprints there. 

My Mary was a lovely, dark-eyed girl, 
With soft brown hair and smiling face, 

And slender form of that perfect mold 
That shows a world of truth and grace. 

Sad is the mem'ry of this dreary old mill, 
And the green moss 'round its lonely door; 

P^or Mary whom I loved in other years 
Has passed away to return no more. 

Hhe passed while the golden sun was sinking 
vi On a cloudless eve in the month of May; 

Hhe gave up the life that might have been mine 
Had she not passed so early away. 

While these lone and dreary scenes I view. 
And I list to the sighing winds above, . 

I can almost see my Mary's face, 
And hear her tender words of love. 




FOOTPRINTS BY THE MILL. 



Green is the moss that clusters around 
The door of this lonely old mill ; 

I can see my gentle Mary*s footprints 
Deep traced in the green moss still. 



POEMS. 131 

Her life was dear to me in early youth, 
And dearer still it grew in after years ; 

To-day in memory of that life of love, 

I'll bathe her footprints with my warmest tears. 

She was poor, but that she could not help, 
It was her lot and she w^as not to blame, 

Yet she retained 'mid all her poverty 
Tliat grandest thing in life — a spotless name. 

I loved her because she was jooor and kind. 
And bore a heart that often beat too true ; 

She was constant, and when my love grew weak 
She ne'er once dreamed of turning unto you. 

Bhe was too fair a rose to bloom alone, 

Encircled by the dangerous thorns of earth- 
She died, but will bloom again in Heaven 
The same sweet rose — but of nobler birth. 



FAREWELL TO THOSE MOMENTS. 
We used to stroll ofttimes together 
In spring-tide's cool and balmy w^eather, 

O'er many a hill and meadow green ; 
But now she strolls in a distant land, 
Her feet upon the sinking sand, 

Heart broken and less serene. 
I used to hold her pretty hand 
Long ere it wore another's band, 

And kiss it o'er and o'er again ; 
But now those moments loved so well 
Do but in my memory dwell 

To bear a joy mixed with pain. 



1H2 POEMS 

HILLS, ROADS, A VALLEY AND A FOUNTAm. 

(It was the anthor's ploasuro not many years since, while in the "Land 
of Flowers," to become thoronghly acqnainted with the picturesque 
scenery as described in the following poem.) 

There was a time when the fire of youth 
BuriiM deep within my wayward soul, 

I often strolTd oVt pleasant hills, 
Where timid mortals seldom stroll. 

Those hills were never coverM oVr 
With nature's cold and ehilly dew; 

But damp with heaven's melting drops. 
They were ever charming to my view. 

Mine eyes had never seen before 
Such iovf^ly hills as n«et their gaze; 

My soul was in a paradise 

Where it alone could sweetly graze. 

'Hound that lone spot no cypress tree 
E'er waved with leaves of gold or green; 

But tlowers as pure as the lily's leaf 
Lent beauty to the charming scene. 

A zephyr sweet from off those hills 

Was wafted from a fount below, 
Where tender sprigs of golden grass 

Glisten'd in the moonbeam's glow. 

The vale between those dewy hills 
Was neVr so enticing to mine eyes 

As when the moonbeam's silvery rays 
Played on it from the midnight skies. 



POEMS. 133 

Serene and quiet were those hills 

Where oft my famish'd soul had fed: 
But more serene was the lovely vale 

Where at times I laid my weary head. 

Oft have I lain at twilight eve 

With huoyant heart and tired feet 
Beside the wild, romantic flowers, 

That cluster'd 'round that fountain sweet. 

Two balmy roads led to the fount, 

Where never wayward feet had been 
Save mine — for it was chiefly mine 

To roam and meditate therein. 

Oft have I ruffled the golden grass 

That waved in beauty day and night 
Beside that fount — but in my haste 

On a summer eve I took my flight. 

Those hills to me are pleasant still, 

And will be till I'm old and gray; 
That dewy vale with its loved incline 

Is where ray head is wont to lay. 

That fount is still a lovely spot. 

If the grass retains its golden hue— 
The balmy roads are pleasant yet, 

If sprinkled with the fountain's dew. 



As the ivy twines the lily's leaf 'neath the forest tree, 
So 'mid the changing scenes of life I cling to thee. 



THE AUTUMN LEAVES. 

I fieiir the lonely autumn breeze 
BioJnng thro' the half-clad maple tree» 

'Bound yonder cot; 
The golden leaves how swiftly they tly 
While the dreary branches seem to sigh^ 

Is this OUR lot ? 

I see them falling unto the earth 
That gave their stately parents birth, 

Like flakes of gold; 
I see them resting on the meadow grasSy 
Lying ^round me in a golden mass — 

In earth to mould. 

How strange that gentle spring should bear 
Its tender leaves for autumn's air 

To fade away, 
And fall in death!— that cruel thing 
That has, alas! a venomed sting 

For mortal clay. 



WOELDLY PLEASURE. 

E'( n tho' by pursuit we honestly gain it, 
No satisfaction that knowledge would bring ; 

Fi r soon we'd grow tired and hate to begin it, 
And cast it aside— a detestable thing. 

The joy in pleasure is when we pursue it, 
The HOPE, not the object pursuit would attain ; 

lor the object is transient— hope is eternal; 
Pursuit has its joy— to gain has its pain. 



POEMS. 135 

FALSE, UNGRATEFUL, UNKIND. 

Far from thy pressQce would to Grod I could flee. 
For I'm weary of the pain T have gathered from thee; 
That pain too fresh and too deep in my heart 
For the soul of forgiveness ever to part. 

Thou art even as false as some frivolous youth 

Who has rejected all honor and discarded the truth ; 

Thy hand at this moment is colder than death, 

And the words from thy lips are but poisonous breath. 

Thou art fair to behold, but thy b )som is hard, 
And contains not a feeling I now can regard ; 
For thou hast been false, ungrateful, unkind — 
The good that lay in thee I never could find. 



IN THE WILDS OF MY SOUL. 

I love to roam in the wilds of my soul 
Where birds sing sweetly and fl.owers are fair; 

Where there are streamlets, lakes and ponds, 
With naught to beset or tempt me there. 

I iove to sit by that rippUng stream 
Whose waters no eyes can e'er bjliold 

Save these longing eyes of mine, 
In tliat sweet world to mortals untv)ld. 

I love to list to the birds in the trees 

As they warble their notes on the stilly air ; 

And r love to be with the beautiful flowers 
That bloom in the wilds of my soul so fair. 



IS(> POEMS. 

TWILIGHT ON THE FARM. 

^Tis plea:^ant to see the brooni-scdge burning 
At evening twilight on the farm ; 

To see the weary cows returning, 
And hear the peacock's wild alarm. 

'Tis pleasant to see the rabbit playing 
In the !-and beside the lonely mill; 

To hear the watch-dog faintly baying 
Seme object o'er the distant hill. 

'Tis pleasant to see the dove returning 
To its long deserted, gloomy nest ; 

To hear the little sparrow yearning 
For its limb of quietude and rest. 

'Tis pleasant to hear the gentle maiden 
Singing 'mid the garden's bowers; 

To s(e her peaceful bosom laden 
With its fairest budding flowers. 



-Band B E. 



It rnrist have been love that could stoop to the plain 
Of shame and disgrace and endure such pain 
For one whose passion o'erbalanced his honor, 
As shown l»y the suffering he imposed upon her. 

It must have been love that could drink from the spring 
Of the gall of bitterness— knowing 'twould bring 
Eternal disgrace— the purity of life 
Forfeited for the hope of becoming a wife. 



F* O E M S . 137 



REPOSING. 

(Oil being as!ved by a pretty brown-eyed girl, in the month of August, 
to write a poem for her while she reposed. The following lines were 
presented to her on her awakening.) 

As I stand beside thy lovely form. 

And see those gentle eyelids close, 
I feel I'm standing by an angel 
Falling into sweet repose. 

As I view thy snowy neck and face, 
I wish that they were only mine ; 

My heart grows weary for repose 
Beside that tender heart of thine. 

I love those eyes e^en when closed, 

And too I love that pretty nose — 
Thy velvet cheeks they are to me 

Like the leaves of the summer rose. 

I love that sweet, half-open'd mouth. 
With ivory teeth as white as pearl — 

Ah, yes, to me 'tis untold bliss 
To stand beside this sleeping girl. 



A MISTAKE. 

(The poem containing three verses, published in my second book and 
entitled "That Christmas Card," are the only verses in my life which I 
regret ever having written. The entire poem is a mistake caused by be- 
ing too hasty.) 

I would willingly forfeit my right to the muse 

If I only this day could recall 
The verses I wrote in the heat of my passion, 

Which I consider the meanest of all. 



138 POEMS, 

POOL* FELLOW, HE'S DEAD. 

Kind friends, you like me while Pni gay, 
And tiie jolly tide of youth flows on ; 

But you will never think of me 
After I'm laid away and gone. 

You'll never think of him who loved 
And breathed for you a gracious breath ; 

Ah, no, you'll e'er forget the hands 
You gently crossed in stilly death. 

You'll forget all the friendly smiles 
That I ever for you have shed, 

And if my name should e'er be called, 
You'd say, ''Poor fellow, he's dead!'^ 



ANNIE, THE MOCKENG-BIKD. 

O would I were a mocking-bird 
Like the one that sings for me, 

I'd keep my lovely throat in tune, 
And warble in ev'ry tree. 

I'd sing to lonely human hearts, 
And cheer them day by day; 

At night I'd charm the poet's ear 
With my very sweetest lay. 

Long would I sit beside his door 
And warble his "Marguerite," 

And too I'd sing *'The Mocking-Bird" 
In accents gay and sweet. 



POEM 8. KJ9 



THERE'S BLISS FOR YOU. 



'Mid life's many changing scenes, 
Clouds may gather o'er your way; 

Yet behind their gloomy shadows 
There's for you a brighter day. 

Disappointment fast may come, 
As hope upon its wings expires ; 

But faith and love will bring to pass 
Your fondest wishes and desires. 



IN MEMORIAL. 

(To a young lady who sought publicity by attempting to belittle in 
public print a poem by the author, entitled "Beautiful Snow" — She has 
never been heard from through the press since.) 

She died after the beautiful snow had melted, 

And was buried beneath the '^slush ;" 
The last sad words she breathed upon earth 
Were these simple ones, "Oh, poet, do hush!" 



\/ 



CHILDHOOD SCENES. 
O raptured scenes of childhood hours ! 

In memory I behold 
Thy dewy paths and grassy hills 

Where oft my feet have stroH'd. 



ALONE. 

I feel like some lone, deserted lad, 
Standing on the shore of life's great ocean 
Casting pebbles in its billows, as if to excite 
Some past emotion. 



140 P O E M 8 

THE MEMORY OF THY FA(^E. 

My niem'ry calls me back wheii I first saw thy f'aof*. 
Those m'>!T)etits in n\y lif(> that are d'^are-t of'all — 

To the liour wh'Mi F met thee in h^'auty and grace, 
Tiiat hour of rai>ture I (leli<»:ht to recall. 

As r stand by thy shrine of be.iuty and truth 
I paint nie a picture no artist can paint — 

A picture of thee in the bh)oni of thy youth, 
Fair as the lily and as pure as a saint. 

The love that exists in that bosom of thine 

Is as perfect as the bloom on thy beautiful face, 

Thus fain I would kneel at the foot of thy shrine 
And there be absorb'd in thy beauty and grace. 

I speak not to flatter thee, remember this well, 
As the mem'ry of thy face this day I recall — 

For deep in my bosom thy spirit doth dwell, 
And thou to that bosom art dearer than all. 

Thy smiles are as soft as the sunbeam's ray 
When it kisses the hills in the distant west; 

They light up my soul from day unto day, 
And bring to my life eternal, sweet rest. 

Thou art a charm to my wandering eye, 
The flower of my hope— a milk-white dove; 

And a star in the east in the cloudless sky, 
More beautiful to me than an anorel of love. 



Tliis life is but a fleeting scene of trials and sorrow, 
A faint ray of hope to-day, a dismal cloud to-morrow. 



POEMS. I4i 

THERE'LL BE MY TOMB. 

I'm in the world, a world of sighs, 
Of sorrow, pain and w^eeping eyes^ 

And ofttimes gloom ; 
I love the few sweet sunny hours 
I've spent amid the woodland flowers — 

There'll be my tomb. 

My tomb I but ah, I'm loath to die. 
And 'neath those lovely flowers lie 

Mouldering away; 
They'll bloom sweetly, but in that tomb 
Fll not scent their sweet perfume, 
Each silent day. 

Sweet summer with its peaceful calm 
Will bear a pure and holy balm 

Around that mound ; 
But alas ! no boon 'twill bring to me^ 
For I'll not feel, or hear or see, 

Beneath the ground. 

Then what cure I to leave a name 
Praised for genius, wealth or fame, 

When I am gone; 
Buch praises as your lips would bear 
I'd not care to hear up there, 

Beside God's throne. 



There's many an angel in the hovels of earth, 
'Mid the lonely shades of the forest pine, 

Hidden from the view of the passer-by 
By the gloomy leaves of the ivy vine. 



OUR FINAL HOME. 

Jiisf above us — not a score of miles away, 
Wt'Ml spend our vast etc rnity— some day; 
A blessed ab( de wbeie all is pure and fair — 
S| irits of many loved ones gone— they are tliere. 

'Ibe J I ST aloiu — these who liave loved on earthy 
And much sorrow endured— of lowly birth ; 
They shall wing their way thro' realms sublime, 
Ntiiight sliall mar their flight— not even Time. 

Floating mansions will be there, and walls of gold, 
And ^iit(s of pearls, these shall our eyes behold; 
And streets whose surface purest gold shall grace, 
Will be our grand, eternal home— in space. 

taught but the gentle, the sinless and the fair, 
Tan inhale the fragrance of that heavenly air, 
Wh( re flowers bloom in love, and the sunlight is clear, 
And no eyelids are heavy with sorrow and care. 

Dejith is like a dream— a pure and simple dream; 
A peaceful voyage upon a peaceful stream ; 
A stream whose waters— unlike the troubled sea — 
Will bear our frail bark on to Fiteruitv. 



^'FAREWELL!" 

This word to a youthful heait is solemn, 
And one on which I would not dwell; 
But to-night it must be spoken, 
80 unto you I say— "farcw^ell I'' 



P O K M S . 143 



TO MY MOTHER. 



Lean on this bosom, 'tiK for thee it doth swell, 
It shall bear thee, support thee, and comfort thee \vA\ 
Not a thought, not a word in life I would speak 
That would bear for a moment a tear to thy cheek. 

Lean on this bosom, 'tis for thee it doth swell, 
No other is so worthy in its chamber to dwell; 
An angel of p3ace thou art unto me — 
I forget all my sorrows while thinking of thee. 

Lean on this bosom, for 'tis given to thee; 
A touch of thy being bears strength unto me; 
The smile on thy face, like the smile of the morn. 
Will live in my heart when all others are gone. 



A MUSTACHELESS BARD. 

His whiskers didn't come, his mustache is gone, 

And to-day he's standing ashore 
Enjoying the breeze with a cleaned shaved lip, 

Relieved of the burden it bc^re. 

He's feeling so lonely, dull and forsaken, 

The boys they know him no more ; 
The girls are siirprised, and speaking of him, 

Say, '*He's uglier than ever before." 

He can't understand why.,the beautiful girls 

Should thus be so cruel and rash, 
Unless they b3lieve that kisses are sweeter 

From lips that bearii mustache. 



\/ 



S44 P O E M S , 

MAY ALL THESE BE THINE, MAYMK 

May thy cheeks be as soft and sweet 
As the hyacinths 'round thy gentle feet. 
And may those lovely eyes of thine 
Like stars of beauty ever shine. 

May thy soft locks of raven hair 
Lend beauty to thy neck so fair, 
And may thy bosom, pure and white. 
Be ever filled with Truth and Right. 

May thy sweet life be naught but love,. 
And gentle like the turtle dove; 
And may thy hand be free to do 
AH that's noble, kind and true. 



There's something sweetly solemn 
In the moon beam '^s silvery rays^ 

Bearing thoughts of other years^ 
Their melancholy days. 



There^s nothing in life to live ferry 
Except it be sorrow and pain ; 

But there's more in death than dyiny^ 
To simply exist again. 



Turn the light of Trnth into the chamber of yom* soul, 
AihI there let it glow like a radiant star ; 

\7 will dispel all the sickening shadows therein, 
And show you, poor mortal, just what you are. 



POEMS. 145 

'TIS HARD TO BE HAPPY. 

T \vis]i I was happy, but that cannot be 
While I'm drifting on life's changeable sea; 
Ever toss'd by the waves is my frail little bark. 
As on to Eternity it floats in the dark. 

I wish [ was happy, but that cannot be 
While the grave with its terrors lies open for me, 
As I look into its bosom so lonely and cold 
My soul is absorbed in mystery untold. 

In niystery untold! — for no mortal knows 
The gloom and the shadow of that chilly repose — 
O'ershadow'd as I am, and if that shadow be true, 
' Tis enough for this soul without punishment too. 

To that monster Death I^m but a weak slave, 
Drawn down by his hand to the horrible grave, 
And I cannot escape, but must suffer my doom. 
To lay down forever in darkness and gloom, 

'Tis hard to be happy since hope has been lost 
In the changes of life, with its sunshine and frost, 
While the grave's cold bosom lies open for me, 
As my frail bark floats on to Eternity, 



TO THE POOR YOUNG MAN. 

^Tis better to part from the girl you love, 

The one whom you adore, 
If that dark eyed sister in your home 

Loves to slam the door. 



146 POEMS. 

AN EMPTY VASE, 

\< Unseeing an empty vase, covered with dust, in a room once bri{?lit 
with the smiles of a lovely Christian girl ; bnt now deserted, and bearing 
the odor of faded flowers.) 

Tho' it sits upon the mantle 

In a lone and dusty place, 
Yet it bears the pleasant mem'ry 

Of a kind and happy face. 

The face of one departed 
From the shades of earthly gloom, 

Whose tender smiles still linger, 
Tho' she sleeps in the silent tomb. 

That hand so kind and lovely 

Moves no longer there 
To deck that vase and mantle 

With flowers rich and fair. 

Who knew her tender thoughts 

As she plucked the lilac bloom 
And bore it to this lonely vase, 

Still sitting in the room. 

But that vase is empty now, 
Those hands are cold and gone ; 

The lilac buds therein no more 
Will bloom on summer's morn. 



T had rather hear an earth(|uake 
As it roars 'neath hill and valley. 

Than to hear thr>se angry under-tones 
From the pouting lips of Salley. ' 



POEM 8. nr 

r>P:WAKE OF YOUR CHARACTEIi. 

Beware of your character, in.y charming young girl, 
Keep it near to your heart as a priceless pearl ; 
There are thieves who would steal from your hand and arm, 
And then rob your bosom of its costliest charm. 

Beware of your character, my charming young girl, 
Deceit has a dagger which at you it would hurl, 
And men of the world would smile if the dart 
Was destroying the peace of your innocent heart. 

Beware of your character, my charming young girl, 
As a banner of purity may it ever unfurl, 
And the hearts of all men be led to admire 
That character aglow with a heavenly tire. 



CIRCUMSTANCED 

In Circumstances chilly hand, 
O'er a dangerous gulf we stand, 

Hungry and sore; 
No human hand can save us there, 
We must endure our own despair 

Forever more. 

Oh, Circumstances! whatever thou art, 
Thy hands have sever'd many a heart 

Naught else could sever; 
Tho' Time should part thy cruel grasp^ 
Yet the impress of its clasp, 

Will bleed forever. 



148 POEMS 

MEMORY'S PICTURE. 

In my memory there^s a picture I love to behoh] 
Of a face whose meaning has never been told ; 
'Tis lovelier than the white-robed clouds in the west 
As they downward move to where the sunbeams rest. 

That picture is painted in colors not as bold 
As earth's flashy hues of purple and gold — 
The artist that painted it came from above, 
AVith TRUTH his brush, and his colors were love. 

As I look in those eyes that are dearest to me 
In those charming blue orbs heaven I see; 
My thoughts are borne away to the skies 
As I gaze with rapture in those sweet eyes. 

As I picture that face so blissful, divine. 
There's a feeling of joy in this bosom of mine; 
]^ut 'tis mingled with grief that I should behold 
That face whose nneaning I cannot unfold. 

As I view with pleasure that dove-like form 
I see the embodiment of friendship warm ; 
And my soul with its love would nevermore siu:h 
If that form — not its picture — was lingering nigh. 



A MONUMENT OF I.OVE. 
My love shall remain thro' endless time 
A monument to thy love sublime 

I now adore ; 
No marble pillar shall mark the spot — 
Let the violet and forget -me-!»(>t. . 

Hloom evermore. 



POEMS. 149 

NOT SATISFIED. 

Though we go in the field where the lilies are blooming 

In all their gentle pride, 
Yet we'll feel like a stranger^ and a pilgrim forever, 
For after all 

We are not satisfied. 

Though we sit ^mid the shade of the far-reaching oak, 

And by the daisies abide, 
We'll still feel forsaken and alone in the world. 
For after all, 

We are not satisfied. 

Though we lay near the brook on the cool, green moss, 

And turn from side to side, 
We'll still feel neglected and sadly undone, 
For after all 

We are not satisfied. 

Though we watch the flow of the beautiful river, 

As its waters subside, 
We'll still feel unhappy and ever so weary, 
For after all 

We are not satisfied. 

Though we sit near the angel that shines by the hearth; 

She in our love confide, 
We'll still be in sorrow and acquainted with grief, 
Longing for rest 

And never satisfied. 

Though we stand by the fountain that's flowing with love 

And drink of its sweet tide, 
We'll still bear the feeling and doleful assurance: 
Love is bitter — 

We are not satisfied. 



KEMEMBEIi'D SMILES. 

(On the cfftxth of Miss E. W., a charming young lady, and a devoCed 
Christian, who passed away some time since in this city,) 

Beautiful smiles, remeinber'd smiles, 

They t^cuiie like sunbeams from the cloudless west; 
1 bey re nje frcm the face and the peaceful heart 

Of a loved one now in her home of rest. 

They speak of a lovely, purified soul. 
Whose life was as pure as the air she breathed ; 

They tell of the beauty of the home she loved, 
Of the Christ she sought, and never deceived. 

They tell of the rapture, beautiful rapture, 
Of a life well spent in this vale of tears, 

They show as the dew drops show the tlower, 
That Heaven has a balm for mortal cares. 

They tell of a lowly, crucified One 

Whose smiles were to her like a sunbeam's kiss; 
They speak as she spoke in a world of sin : 

"Jesus, to love Thee is rapturous bliss." 



LYDIE'S SWEET DARK EYES. 

Her dark eyes— I love to gaze within them 
Whene'er I pass that shady spot 
'Hound that loved door; 
Fain would I pause when she is there, 
And gazing on her face and hair. 
Would love her more. 



(SECOND VOLUME.) 



DEDICATED TO MY FRIEI^D, DK. W. J. MURRAY, 

OF COLUMBIA, S. C. 

The Author. 



152 POEMS. 

TPtEAD SOFTLY. 

Tre^d softly, oh, .von mortal man 
As you journey here below, 

ThereV many a pure and lovely rose 
Where'er your footsteps go. 

There's many a rose bud drooping low 
That once was fresh and sweet, 

Now perishing for want of care 
Beneath your wayward feet. 

Oft 'mid the dingy autumn leaves 
The rose sheds a brighter hue, 

But only thro' the grace of God, 
And his sweet morning dew. 

There's many a sweet and lonely buci 
That's bending in the clay, 

While you go heedlessly along 
Life's bright and happy way. 

Tread softly, oh, you mortal man^ 
Don't cease to watch and fear 

Lest you should pass some fallen one 
Who needs your love and care. 



WRITTEN FOR AN ALBUM. 

Time may stain this spotless page. 
And these simple lines erase ; 

But it cannot dim the mem'ry 
Of thy well-beloved face. 



POEMS. 153 

NO AUTUMN IN THE HEART. 

The yellow leaves are falling, love. 

The summer will soon be o'er, 
And we are no nearer to-day, love, 

Than we have been before. 

The tender bloom of youth, love, 

Is fa^tly growing adim, 
And soon 'twill fade away, love, 

As the leaves on yonder limb. 

Our hands will soon grow cold, love, 

Our footsteps be in grief; 
Our weary heads will droop, love. 

As droops the autumn leaf. 

No autumn in the heart, love, 

Shall come to you and me, 
Tho' weHl be lone at night, love, 

As the leafless autumn tree. 

Deep grief will come to us, love, 

Which we can never part; 
Tho^ sore it cannot bring, love, 

Sad autumn in the heart» 



A PRETTY GIRL. 

On her beautiful face there are siniles of grace 
That linger in beauty serene, 

And there are no pimples encircling her dimples 
As ever, as yet, I have seen. 



154 POEMS. 

80ME DAY. 

Some day — it may be while the sun is sinking 

Slowly in the distant west, 
I will cross that unknown river, mother, 

To that sunny shore of rest. 

Some day, when the smile of loved ones gone 

Bids me come to yonder shore, 
IMl meet and kiss you, and be with you, 

And see your face foreverniore. 

Some day, when life's dim star has llickerM out, 

I'll bid adieu to earthly care — 
I'll leave behind no false impression 

Of the life spent while with you here. 



'TIS OF THEE THAT I THINK. 

'Tis of thee that I think when the twilight is dawning, 
And the night shade of gloom is parted and gone, 

And Nature with joy awakes from her slumber 
To welcome with pride the beautiful morn. 

'Tis of thee that E think when the sun is advancing 
Its life-giving beams on all nature around ; 

Its smiles — like thine— to my soul are enchanting, 
And remind me of thee, where pleasures abound. 

'Tis of thee that I think when the twilight of evening 
Is gathering around this bosom of mine, 

Shedding a glimmer in the portals of hope 
Where my joy and peace lie burled in thine. 



POEMS. 155 

THAT KED HAT. 

I love that broad-brim'd, stylish hat, 

All covered o'er with crimson red ; 
J love it because ^tis often seen 

Upon my darling's precious head. 

I love the smiles beneath that brim 

On which my soul has often fed ; 
I love them, for they sweetly glow 

In beauty 'neath a crimson red. 

I love those youthful, precious strands, 

Of silken, soft ard downy hair ; 
I love them, for they cluster ^round 

My darling's neck so pure and fair. 

I love those cheeks of velvet hue; 

Like flowtrs in a dewy bed ; 
I love that girl, and love that bat 

All cover'd o'er with crimson red. 



*' YOUNG MANHOOD." 

In passion's wayward stream we tloat, 
A strange and irresistless tide; 

Reckless thoughts, suggestive words, 
Oft greet our ears on either side. 

"Young manhood" is not all in name, 
A dull, obscure, unmeaning term — 

Nor is it like the lifeless tree 
That has forever lost its germ. 



166 POEMS 

A GOLDEN HAIRED GTRL. 

Fair lady I'll admit that Fve loved in the past, 

And at many a shrine have knelt ; 
But I knew not the depth of my hearts true love 

Till a glance from your eyes I had felt. 

But that smile is not mine on your rose-tinted cheeks, 
Nor that sunlight of hope in your eyes; 

Yet gladly I love them, for I know they are true, 
And as constant as the stars in the skies. 

Your hair is a treasure, so silken and soft. 

Oft gathered into one bright fold ; 
It bears the rich hue that I always admired — 

A beautiful California gold. 

There^s a harp in your bosom that bears many note-^, 
The sweetest these lonely ears have heard ; 

Its strings are divine, for they tell me of love 
In soft notes that outrival the bird. 

Adieu, fair lady! if no more we should meet, 
And your sweet form be drifted apart, 

Yet the sacred mem'ry of your matchless face 
I will ever keep fresh in my heart. 



BUT FEW VIRTUES. 

Many are the great men the world has produced 
Whose virtues, alas! have been few; 

For they have drank in sin with as much delight 
As the butterfly drinks the dew. 



POEMS. 157 

A GRACIOUS FRIEND. 

(Written by request on tlie fly-leaf of a young lady's Bible.) 

Earthly friends may prove untrue 

And coldly on thee look, 
But thou wilt have a lasting friewd 

If trusting in this Book, 

Dark clouds may gather o'er thy head, 

And hover 'round thee near; 
But this Book will be a beacon light 

To guide thy feet from fear. 

Cold hands may touch thy gentle hand 

Whom long thy love forsook ; 
But thou wilt hold a gracious hand 

If trusting in this Book, 



VOCAL MUSIC. 

That sweetly sad melody 

That comes from the golden strings 

Of that tender'st of harps — the heart. 
80 strange, so sweetly strange 
It gives that to the human soul 

Which angels cannot impart. 

That fond harp of a thousand 
Ever-tuned, invisible strings, 

Swelled by the touch of sacred love ; 
Sb strange, so sweetly strange. 
It often bears, and it alone, 

The vilest heart to heaven above. 



l.-.^ POEM p. 

ALONE AT MlDMGHr ON THE ( ONOAREE. 

r wjitched thetnoon at the midnig-ht hour 
As it .^h)wly ymik t;> the distant west; 

Jt looked like an angel clothed in white, 
Softly stealing to its home of rest. 

I watched it pass 'hind the fleeting clouds, 
As it cast its shadows down upon me; 

Then again it would scatter its silvery rays 
On the lonely hills by the Congaree. 

I w^atched it until the distant clouds 
Gathered in the west and passed away; 

Then I beheld in its matchless beauty 
That mystic circle— the milkyway. 

I thought of the millions of human souls 
That have watched its light on land and sea, 

And of the thousands who in other days 
Have watched it by old Congaree. 

I thought as it sunk in the far-off west, 
And withdrew from my view its last fond ray, 

How sweet if my life like that silvery orb 
Could peacefully and quietly steal away. 



DON^T WOUND HER FEELINGS. 

Young man, don't wound her feelings 
With words that are cold and rough, 

For life with its vicissitudes 
Will wound them soon enough. 



. POEM-S. , \m 

PASSING AWAY, 

Everything passes away in its turn, 
Teaching the sad lesson we all must learn; 
The breeze that cooled your cheek is gone, 
Never to cool it again in the niorn. 

The flowers that sweetly bloom in the lane 
Will fade and never be seen there again ; 
The swamp's fair lily and green-clad fern, 
Will pass from their bed and never return. 

The birds that chirp about in the trees, 
Are passing away like the morning breeze ; 
All pass to their destiny void of regard 
For their Maker, Sustainer, Adorable God, 

The dark river-water that flows in its course 
Can never again return to its source; 
And the crystal water that's deep in the well 
Is bidding its source a lasting farewell. 

And man! one immortal, with senses of right. 
With tieaven in his soul and God in his sight. 
Must pass like the rest, each in his turn, 
On to the grave, never to return. 



I'LL ONLY THINK OF THEE. 

Miss Annie, as oft in solitude 
As whene'er 'tis mine to be, 

I'll silence ev'ry wayward thought. 
And only think of thee. 



1(50 POEM 8. 

THINKING OF THEE. 

In the qniet hours of the niK^t, 

Ah the cricket chirps upon the hewrthy 

I'm proue to be 
8a(i]y wanc^ering, sadly lurking, 
'Eound some old familiar spot 

Alone with thee. 

As I list to the ticking of the clock, 
As it ticks away the midnight hour, 

Its solemn sound 
Sadly echoes, sadly deepens, 
As it bears my heart to thee 

Where peace is found. 

As I list to the earliest pipe 

Of the half-awaken'd mocking-bird 

In the elm tree, 
There's a whisper, gentle whisper, 
That tells my soul that some sweet day 

I'll be with thee. 



SLEEP, SWEET CHILD. 

(On a child's grave.) 
Bleep, sweet child in thy little bed, 

Flowers are blooming o'er thy head — 
The daisies fair and violets sweet 

Shall ever elwster 'ro?ind thy feet. 

Sleep, sweet child, in thy little beci, 
No wind shall murmur o'er thy. head ; 

But the gentle breeze of love shall wave 
Each dewy Hower o'er thy grave. 



POEMS. 161_ 



TO liYDIE. 



As the last rays of s^unset are fading away, 

This eve I think of thee, 
And picture thy sweet face in allits beauty, 

So fondly dear to me. 

I think of thee while gazing on the western clouds 

Tinged with purest gold ; 
And treasure thee as one far dearer to me 

Than all I now behold. 

I think of thee while sitting on the cool, sweet grass, 

And looking o'er the park, 
And wonder if this heart will e'er be lighted 

By thy ennobling spark. 



THE CUP OF SORROW. 

This weary life is filled with grief, 
With sorrow deep, and weS^e no relief 
Prom that overflowing cup 
Which we must drink of, sup by sup. 

'Tis sad that we live to droop and die, 
With no kind friend to linger nigh. 
And no sweet voice that gently speaks. 
Or hand to touch our burning cheeks. 

^Tis sad that we hold lifers bitter cup, 
Only to drink of it, sup by sup ; 
To know we cannot lay it by, 
But must drink, alas ! and slowly die. 



1G2 POEMS. 

SHE'S VERY DEAR TO UK, 

There^s a little brown eyed lady 
Who is very dear to iiie^ 

She occupies a lovely cottage 
'Mid the oaks in Waverly. 

She's a pretty, smiling lady, 
But 1 seldom see her smiles, 

For our homes are far apart, 
Just about two dreary miles. 

I'm very fond of this sweet lady, 
For she has such beaming ey< s: 

But if I procrastinate 
Another heart may win the j)rize. 

She's a polished, noble lady, 

Highly learned, industrious too, 

And her sunny hand is faithful 
In whate'er it finds to do. 

In my being there's no object 
That can fill its better part 

Save this little brown eyed lady — 
She is nearest to my heart. 



TEARS. 

Tears! they always tell a tale 
No human knowledge can avail 

To solve, or find the meaning tr;io 
Of thise pure di'oi)s of sacred dew. 



POEMS. 163 

TO ELEANORE. 

Fond as the reiiiember'd kisses of lips now in the grave 

Is that sweet face of thine ; 
Of kisses wlien the heart reposed in sweeter hope 

Than this vain hope of mine. 

Dear as the remember'd smiles on youth's unsullied cheek 

In boyhood's dewy morn, 
Are thy sweet and tender smiles to me so fondly dear, 

In beauty ever borne. 

Fond as the suramier's morn when the maiden's sweet hand 

Gathers the lilac bloom ^ 
Are those endearing smiles upon thy lovely face, 

Dispelling my inmost gloom. 

Loved as the remember'd notes of music on the air 

From a voice most divine, 
Are those enchanting notes that swell my lonely heart 

With that sweet love of thine. 



PULL OF THOSE SUSPENDEKS. 

(It used to be the style for ladies to wear suspenders, or at least a 
good imitation of same which, how^eyer, called forth the following lines.) 

Sweet girl, I like to see you look 

The very best you can ; 
But please do not try so soon 

To imitate a man. 
You are not masculine or neuter, 

Neither of those genders; 
Therefore, I'd advise you to 

Pull off those suspenders. 



164 POEMS 



THY MOTHER'S LOVE. 

Thy father will some time reject thee 
When thy path is sin and strife ; 

But thy mother will e*er protect thee 
In the thorny paths of life. 

Thy sister will some time neglect thee 
When thy face is absent lang ; 

But thy mother will ne'er forget thee 
In her gentle words of song. 

Thy brother will some time detest thee 
When thy feet have gone astray; 

But thy true mother will e'er bless thee 
Till she^s laid beneath the clay. 



DEPARTED HOPE. 

WeS^e seen it fade in youth like the golden rays 

Of yonder setting sun, 
-From the brightest spot of love in the gentle luart 

Where once it first begun. 

We've seen it bid adieu and slowly pass away 
Fronri what it could have blest; 

And have wept as it sunk within the shadowy grave 
In the far distant west. 

We've felt its bliss depart from the gentle bo^oni 

Of peace and perfect love, 
lieaving a pain and void until our weary souls 

Are re-united abov^. 



POEM 8. 165 

THE BIBLE. 

Haly Bible, book sublime, 

Thy promises I believe; 
Of a surer balm for mortal wounds 

I can't on earth conceive. 

Gracious Word, sweet repose, 

In thy embrace is love ; 
No surer light can guide my soul 

To yonder's Heaven above. 

Opened Word, love eternal, 

No truth thou doth oonoea); 
This bosom holds no secret thought 

But what thou canst reveal. 

Glorious Word, peace divine, 
A cure for every pain ; 

A searcher of departed Iambs- 
Bringing them back again. 

Matchless Word, love untold, 

The surest hope of rest ; 
The smooth tide that bears my soul 

To God's infinite breast. 



MATTIE. 

Mattie, thou knoweat I love thee, 
Yet in the weak channels of my mind 
No words sufficient can I find 

To express that unfathomable love. 



166 rOKM8. 



A FALLEN WOMAN. 



Slie has fallen ! Oh, God what a pitiful sight 
To see one so beautiful, tender and bright, 
Fall from the sweet paths of truth and right 
Into the lowest slums of sin and night. 

Once she was lovely, and pure in her thought ; 
Kindness and peace in her bosom was wrought; 
But now she is stained, even until death 
Shall take from her being its last fleeting breath. 

Once she was gentle, modest and sweet ; 
A friendly smile she delighted to greet; 
But now she has fallen, her bed is the street. 
Her name is too common for men to repeat. 



DEATH. 

Oh, Death ! I tremble at the thought 
Of that cold hand of thine, 

That it must blight with iron grasp 
This poor, weak heart of mine. 

I tremble that my weary life — 
Tho^ ^void of much true worth — 

Must ever cease to live again 
In the pleasant paths of earth. 



TBUE FRIENDSHIP. 
True Friendship! how sweet it is. 

Inadequate are words to tell, 
We can but pause in secret thought. 

And ever on its bosom dwell. 



POEMS. 1^)7 

TO A DEAR ONE ON THE OTHER SHORE. 

Sweet face of thine, departed dead, 
Canst thou not linger by my bed 

On this low ground of sorrow, 
And bear me a comfort sweet 
Till I in heaven thou shalt greet 

On a glorious to-morrow? 

I'll look for gentle smiles from thee, 
Tho' far beyond Hfe's fitful sea, 

In realms of endless bliss ; 
I'll long to view thy shining face 
In beauty thro' eternal space, 

Like a sunbeam's sweet kiss, 

I'll long to see that lovely face 
As it once shone in perfect grace, 

So gentle and divine; 
'Twould bear a truer sense of heaven 
Than all the gifts God has given 

To this cold heart of mine. 

'Twould give me until life is o'er 
A firmer hope of that sweet shore 

When Time has passed away ; 
'Twould take away my night on earth 
And give my soul a sinless birth — 

A grand, transparent day. 



The winter is here with its dreary winds, 
And chilly nights of snow and frost; 

It seems to smile in cold revenge 

On what sweet summer made and lost. 



168 POEMS. 

OX THE DEATH OF MR J. H. W-— , 

(The hij^lily intelli gent gentk n^an, on whose death this poem is writ- 
ten was a Tery ne«r and true friend of the author— a native of this city,) 

A n( b!e, iruf man, has passed from the sphere 
Of life iind its trials, of life and its care, 
For the home he longed for, the rest he sought, 
He constantly cherished the happiest thought. 

He lived but to love, all nature was dear 
Unto hini whose heart no malice could bear, 
And never words from his lips were of strife, 
But love in its fullness composed his life. 

^Twas strange that one so noble should die 
In the b]o( m of youth, with a character high ; 
Should bid farewell in the noon-tide of life 
To two sweet children and a fond, loving wife. 

He faded like the rose on a lovely June morn. 
To a home and a heaven his spirit was borne; 
With a life so pure, so noble and brave, 
He has beautified death and honor'd the grave. 



YOUES, NOT MINE. 

Years have come and passed away 
Like sunbeams on the sea, 

Leaving all their peace in gold 
For YotJ and not for me. 

Years have come and passed away. 
Their mem'ry brings no sigh. 

For rainbows on each zephyr morn 
Adorn'd your eastern sky. 



(FIRST VOLUMe.) 



DEDICATSlD TO MY FRIENDS, 
W. H. GIBBES, JR., AND J. WILSON GIBBES, 

OF COLUMBIA, S. C. 

The Author. 



170 POEMS. 



TO A FRIEND. 



A glance into that face of thine 

Shows friendship sweet ; 
A friendship that will never be cast 

Be-neath my feet. 

I love the impulse of that heart 

Where friendship lives ; 
'Tis sweeter to nie than the dewy morn 

The spring-tide gives. 

I'll praise that noble heart of thine 

Till I pass above ; 
'Twill be to me throughout my life 

A source of love. 



THIS LOCK OF HAIR IN MY WATCH. 

After that face is cold and still, 

That face to me so fair, 
I'll treasure in a jewel'd case 

This simple lock of hair. 

Tho' shadows gather 'round my path, 

Deep sorrow fill the air, 
Yet in fond mem'ry I will prize 

This simple lock of hair. 

While in that gloomy resting place, 
For which 1 shall prepare ; 

There'll lie within a jewelVl case 
This simple lock of hair. 



POEMS. 171 

HER HEART IS MY COTTAGE. 

Her heart is my cottage away in the wood, 

And the ivy entwines its door; 
Its walls are of love, with entrance ajar 

To welcome the needy and poor. 

The lily and violet they cluster around 

The door and all over the lawn, 
And no weeds e'er mar their innocent growth, 

For theyVe long since faded and gone. 

I live in this cottage amid the sweet gleam 

Of sunshine and peace on its hearth ; 
'Tis fairer than the home in which I was born— 

'Tis the happiest spot on earth. 

I\^e rest in this cottage where love is aglow 

As bright as the radiant sun— 
I've much to esteem, and naught to regret, 

Since this peaceful life was begun. 



ONCE, AND ONLY. 

Let us do all the good we can 
While we journey to yonder shore, 

For the path we are treading to-day 
We can never tread in any more* 

We can never again recall 

The smile on the face that is gone; 
We can never make brighter that smile 

We've neglected so long to own. 



172 POEMS 

THE WHITE HEAD'S FAREWELL TO TIME. 

"I'll bid thee farewell!" said the frosty head, 
"Farewell to that cold hand of thine ; 

Long I've been forced to feel thy touch 
On this lone and feeble head of mine/' 

''Till the noon-day of life my hair was black, 
Parted with care on the left-hand side; 

Praised for its brightness and neatness of cut, 
Charming the eyes of the lovers of pride." 

"Fair hands have caress'd it many a time 
When life was as fresh as the budding bay; 

I lost a few strands as the years rolled by, 
But ne'er once dreamed of its fading away.'^ 

"IH^e fought thee, oh, Time! oft and again, 
Since by the fair fountain of youth I've lain ; 

I've bathed in its waters, balmy and sweet. 
And never once felt a sorrow or pain." 

*'But the dew of my life's fond summer is gone. 
Dried up forever by that hand of thine — 

I must pass to the grave by thy command, 
Oh, thou eternal, resistless Time!" 



YOU CRITICS. 

Oh, you critics! — if an author errs in a single line. 

That line you'll surely quote, 
And will give it as a sample fair 

Of all he ever wrote. 



POEMS. 17^ 

THINK OF ME. 

When memory fond shall call you back 
To hours you've spent by the Congaree, 

And faces dear and smiles enchanting 
Throng your bosom— think of me. 

Think of me on life's dark ocean, 

Toss'd by many a troubled wave; 
Bound by fates eternal fetters. 

Floating o'er a gloomy grave. 

Think where once your smiles were givett 
To cheer me with their bliss untold; 

When they were as bright as heaven's, 
Ere your loving words grew cold. 

Think when hope was like the morning 

Unclouded, with its peaceful rays; 
Where fond anticipation slumber'd 

On its brow in those sweet days. 

Think what binds this lonely bosom 
Are the pleasant ttes I cannot part — 

Constancy in gold and steel 
I trust is graven on your heart. 



A MOTHER'S LOVE, 

There is no love like a mother's love, 
No heart that beats so warm, 

No form so delicate that could brave 
Life'^ battle and its storm. 



17+ POEMS. 

THE GEAVE OF THE PAST. 

As I stand by the weather-beaten grave 
Of the solemn past, 

And think of those I might have loved, 
My heart beats fast. 

As I think of moments unimproved, 
How strange I feel. 

And dtep regret into my heart 
Is wont to steal. 

I think of the many warning words 

I might have spoken 
To comfort that forsaken heart, 

So sadly broken. 
I think of the pearl that might have shone 

Lovely and bright, 
Now lost in the mouldering clay 

Of earth's cold night. 

While I stand by this neglected grave, 

I feel so lone, 
As n)y heart beats the solemn words, 

The past is gone! 
As I stand alone no pleasant sound 

Doth greet my ear, 
But the murmuring winds sadly tell 

That all is drear. 
No birds sing sweet 'round that lone spot. 

No flowers bloom ; 
But ling' ring shadows forever prove 

Its deepest gloom. 



POEMS. 175 



Oh, thou Grave! thou dost not hold 

A virtue true ; 
Would that I could breathe for thee 
A last adieu ! 

Would that I from thee forever 

Could turn away, 
And make a beautiful, sunny grave 
Of sweet to-day. 



NOT TILL THEN. 

When I hear thy voice grow harsh, 
See thee scan me with contempt, 

And turn thy face away; 
Then, not even then, will I 
Esteem the love-light in thy heart 

For me a dying ray. 

When I feel the grasp of kindness 
81owly turn to a distant touch 

Of thy sweet, gentle hand ; 
Then, and not till then, will I 
Look on thee as one too strange 

For me to understand. 

When I see thee shun my coming, 
Pass along some other way, 

Else we should simply meet ; 
Then, not even then, will I 
Condemn thy being whose sweet face 

I too gladly would greet. 



^^^^ POEMS. 

BESIDE THE BROOK. 

I take me dowr) beside this babbling brook 
With heart made sad by the ruemMy of a look 

From )ong-l()ved absent eyes; 
I sit me down and learn what I have been 
'Mid ail the vieissitndes of a Jifeof sin 

In a world of grief and sighs. 

1 cateh a sound— a gentle note of Jove 

From the lonely heart of some sweet mother-dove 

In the distant niapJe tree; 
If she could but speak how gladly she would tell 
Of the green hedge where oft she used to dwell 

When her heart was young and free. 

Beside this brook where no strange sound is heard 
Her young lay sleeping 'neath their parent bird 

On the morn of each summer day; 
But some rash band perhaps from her had borne 
Her tender young and left her here alone 

To mourn her sweet life away. 

As I list to Nature it seems from yonder sky 
I hear a gentler note of music drawing nigh 

Than this from an earthly dove — 
Tis the voice of Annie, whose sweety plaintive lays 
Endear'd me to her in other sunny days 

As she sang to me of love. 

My fond Annie, nigh whom I wsed to dwell 
Ere I bade her lovely face farewell, 

And had seen her smiles depart — 




BESIDE THE BROOK. 

1 take me down beside this tiabbling brook 
With heart made sad by the memory of a look 

From long-loved absent eyes ; 
I sit me down and learn what I have heem. 
'Mid all the vicissitudes of a life of sin 

In a world of i^iief and sighs* 



POEMS 179 

She loved me in her early days, and too 
When her sweet life was ting'd with sorrow's hue 
She loved me still with all her heart. 

But she has flown to yonder realms above, 

And left me to mourn o'er the mem'ry of that love 

Which she for me has left behind — 
Sweet be her rest until we meet again 
In that brii?ht world where there^s no grief or pain, 

And love's fond ties forever bind. 



THE SWEETEST ROSE. 
She's too poor to own the costly garments like you possess, 

Or to mingle with your fashionable kind; 
Yet you may seek where'er you will in all your giddy circle 

But no such noble heart as hers you'll find. 

Her sweet form will ne'er glide like yours o'er the ball- 
room floor 
Two thirds clad in garments rich and fair^ — 

Ah, no, but in the lone chamber where grief and sorrow 
reign 
You'll always And her ministering there. 

In your vain eyes she's no better than the servant you em- 

For she was born and reared in obscurity, 
Yet 'mid the blended shades and light of this beclouded life, 
She still retained a sweet life of purity. 

Know you not that of all the roses that cluster in life's garden, 
No matter how^ large their petals or how small, 

You'll always find the tend'rest and sweetest opening bud 
'Mid the autumn leaves close by the garden wall. 



1^^ P O E M S 

ALICE ON HER BIKE. 

T turn ine 'round to gaze on thee, 
8vveet Alice, with thy gentle eyes, 

And brownish hair, 
And looking on thy smiling face, 
And slender form of winning grace, 

I call thee fair — 

And even true, for truth alone 
Dwells in a bosom fair like thine 

Of angel-mould. 
My admiration turns to love 
As thou, sweet Alice, turtle dove, 

My eyes behold. 

I love to view thy slender form 
Upon thy bike of shining steel 

Go flying by; 
Eain would I start me off and steal 
^Round some h)ne corner where thy wheel 

Might pass me nigh. 



Few they are, e'en among men of sacret Writ, 

That do not ofttimes play the hypocrite— 

I have often played it, this [ know full well. 

But of this my worst of sins I'm not too weak to (ell. 



Tread softly as you roam thro' the garden of life, 

Yea, even on tip-toes, 
Or else you may stain with your wayward feet 

The leaves of some sweet rose.- 



POEMS. 181 

* 'LET ME LOOSE.'' 

(On the death of two promising boys who were drowned not long sinc^ 
in a river, while attending a Sunday- school pic-nic near this eity4 

'*Let me loose and I will save you!'' 
Cried out a voice young and brave. 

As the current dashed them onward 
To a lone and watery grave, 

"Let me loose" — but arms grew stronger 
That ere this would save from death — 

"And I will save!" but the pleading 
Hushed upon each dying breath. 

**Let me loose!" and two fond beings 

Clasped to each other, face to face, 
Hunk beneath the gloomy waters, 

Folded in death's cold embrace. 

How strange that these two happy boys 
The objects of their mothers' pride, 

Should thus be borne in life's sweet morn 
Away from each fond mother's side. 

How strange is life! — we know not when 

The hand of death may sever 
The ties of iove we fain would have 

Bind us on earth forever. 

As clasped they were in death's embrace 

While 'neath the waters driven, 
So may they to each other's breast 

Be clasped again in Heaven, 



182 POEMS. 

BEYOND THE GAEDEN WALT^ 

Down beside a cliunp of roses, 
Just beyond the garden wall,. 

Sat a little brown -eyed maiden 
Waiting" for her bow to call. 

It was while the dew was falling 
Late within the evening hour, 

That she sat with careless fingers^ 
Tearing petals from a flower. 

*^Will he never crme,'' she whisper'd, 
^*I have long been waiting here; 

To miss his kisses and caresses 
Is FAR MOEE than 1 can bear.'' 

*^'He must know that I adore him, 
And would linger here till day 

if I thought that he was comings 
E'en tho' many miles away." 

"He is honest and is faithful, 
And I've often told him so; 

But he ne'er has said he loved me,^ 
Never answer'd, yes, or no." 

''Oh, I hear his footsteps coming, 

See the light of his cigar; 
How it shines within the darknesa 

Like some sweetly glowing star V^ 
'^'And I hear him softly humming 

That lovely little plaintive air 
Which he taught me long ago 

Beside these roses sweet and fair,'' 



POEMS. 183 

**0h/' she whispered, '*how I love him, 
Would his heart I could but gain!''— 

And her gentle lips responded 
To his own in sweet refrain: — 

^'What care I for all the roses. 

And the violets on the hill, 
If the love of my beloved 

But lives in my bosom still.'^ 

^What care I for all the sunbeams^ 

And the starlight in the skies, 
If I can but see the sunlight 

Of his dear, impassionM eyes.'^ 

^'What care T tho' other hearts 

Often cold, unfaithful be, 
80 I but know that his true heart 

Is ever faithful unto rae." 

^'How patiently I wait to greet him, 

In the lonely evening hour, 
As I sit beside the roses 

Blooming in this lovely bower.'' 

Here she paused, and looking up, 

Beheld his fond, familiar face — 
**Dear,'' she said, "come sit beside me 

In this lone, secluded place." 

And they sat beside the roses 

Hand in hand and cheek to cheek; 

They never murmur'd or eompliain'd, 
The veil is drawn— let them speak. 



184 POEMB, 

THAT GKOUP OF SWEET SINGEKS. 

(On hearing the sweet notes of the singers of the recently organized 
choir of the First Presbyterian Ohureh of this city, preparatory to the 
reception of a new organ.) 

1 lore to gaze on the fair white forms 

Standing in yon organ loft ; 
I love to hear their youthful voices 

Gently swelling, sweet and soft. 

I love to view their glowing faces 
Filled with youth'^s enchanting smile, 

And scent the sweet perfume of roses 
Wafted from their lips the while. 

A harp of a thousand golden strings 

Can bear no music half so sweet 
As these sad notes that tell my soul 

Of ONE in heaven whom I shall meet. 

It seems I hear her once fond voice 
That often whisper'd in these ears— 

The mem'ry of her rose-hue'd cheeks 
Brings to these eyes a fount of tears; 

Kot tears for a young life idly spent 
In the feigned pretence to do the right ; 

But tears, alas! of grief and pain 
For a disunited heart to-night. 

Each note of the sad, sweet music brings 
The mem'ry of other sunny days; 

The light of love from gentle azure eyes 
Glows brighter now— celestial rays. 



FOE MB. 18 > 

I love the notes that, too, remind me 
Of a brighter honae where I shall dwell 

When lifers strange tide has outward passed, 
And I have breathed to earth farewell. 



FAREWELL, SWEET ROSE. 

(On the death of Miss C , of this city.) 

Farewell, sweet budding rose of earth! 

From loved ones thou hast passed away, 
OVr death's dark river thou hast sailed 

To await our coming, some sweet day. 

Farewell !— but the sound of that sad word 
Soon shall hush on life's cold tide, 

We, too, shall pass o^er one by one 
And gather with thee on the other side. 



YOU DOMESTIC CRITICS. 

Oh, you domestic critics w^ho always quote, 
But cannot e^en compose a readable letter; 

I defy you with all your self-blown wisdom. 
To write a decent line of verse — or make mine better. 



Fair maid, 'tis a ^'little gay poenn^' you wish, 
But you cannot get it to-morrow ; 

But some sweet day I'll grant your request 
When my heart is free from sorrow. 



186 POEMS. 

THAT LITTLE BROWN-EYED LADY. 

In a cool and shady cottage 
Beside the rippling Congaree 

There's a little brown-eyed lady 
Who is all the world to me. 

On her temples blooms the lily, 
From her lips the honey bee 

Sips the purest, sweetest nectar, 
Known within this world to me. 

On her head the roses cluster, 
On each cheek a crimson hue 

Is soften'd by her tender smiles, 
Like rose-tints in morning dew. 

In her hand she holds a sceptre 
Like unto a cupid's dart, 

And I feel it daily piercing 
Like an arrow in my heart. 

O'er her bosom is an armor 
Stronger than the Knight's of old, 

'Neath whose surface fits a garment 
Naught but angels can unfold. 

'Neath that garment there's a world 
Which no wayward heart can win — 

It is by love and love alone 
That I shall ever go therein. 



Forgive him ere he turns away. 
You may need his love another day. 



POEMS 187 

THAT UPPER, WESTERN ROOM. 

I hate that upper, western room 

In which a cruel lady sat; 
Ah, yes, I feel toward that room 

As the mouse t'ward the hungry cat. 

F< r she whom I can ne'er forgive 

As long as life exists in nie. 
Oft sat leside that window lone, 

Almost hidden by the elm tree. 

I hate that roof all cover'd o'er 

With spring's dead buds and autumn's leaves; 
] hate the lonely ^rave-yard moss 

That clusters 'round its dingy eaves. 

I hate that granite window piece 

On which sat a vase of flowers; 
I hate the mem'ry of those buds, 

They lost their sweetness in her bowers. 

I hate that mirror on the wall 

In which she saw her smiling face ; 

I hate that powdtr-puff and paint 
That gave her all her transient grace. 

I hate the mem'ry of those hands 

That used to curl that raven hair; 
Ah, yes, I hate it, for they moved 

As if no other hands were fair. 

I hate that face that never bore 
A single smile to brighten gloom — 

Yes, I hate the bitter mem'ry 
Of that upper, western room. 



188 POEMS 

A GPEEN ISLE OF REST. 

I look away across life's sea 

To an eden land prepared for me, 

Of bliss untold ; 
My soul longs for that green Isle 
As a mother that her absent child 

She might behold. 

I look to where I cannot tlee — 
A green Isle in a heavenly sea, 

A home of rest ; 
My soul is wont to launch and float 
Unto that Isle, that distant port, 

And leave this breast. 

I look to where there's peace in store 
And peace can ne'er be parted more 

By Time's cold hand ; 
Where all is blessed and serene, 
With flowers fresh and grasses green- 

A heavenly land. 

1 hear sweet music's distant strain, 
And it deadens ev'ry sense of pain 

The past has given ; 
It almost bears my soul afloat 
Into that grand and blessed port — 

My home, my heaven. 



The human heart like the sensitive plant 
Will close its leaf of love 

If touched by the hand of ingratitude. 



POEMS. 189 

SLEEPING 'NEA.TH THE VTOLETS. 

Once on yon lone hill where stands the maple tree 
Half-clad with gold and red-tinged autumn leaves. 

My love stood weeping — 
Weeping o'er the fickleness of human love — 
But now, pillow'd there 'neath the canopy of heaven 

She's gently sleeping. 

Little did she think as she gither'd th? dewy violets 
That in the balmy spring of the approaching year 

She'd be resting there; 
That 'mid the maple's shade she always loved so well 
The little violets would bloim unseen, unsought, 

And its shade be drear. 

She sleeps there alone— as fair as the snow-white robe 
That tenderly wrapped her pure and spotless form 

Ere it touched the earth — 
Tho' her heart has ceased to beat and her sweet lips are still, 
Yet she has bequeathed to mankind all she could : — 

A young life of true worth. 



''ISN'T THIS BLISS." 

O'er against the garden wall, thrice kissed by w^ay ward lips 

She stood pondering and weeping 
O'er that momentary bliss known to all fah' m lidens— 

A stolen kiss. 
With ruby lips, bright eyes gazing upward in his face, 

She stood delighted, yet angry; 
Till strong arms embraced her, and forgetting all she sighed, 
''Isn't this bliss?" 



190 POEMS. 

A REPLY TO A VALENTINE. 

The author on receiving a valentine, verj' prettily gotten up, consist- 
ing of a sheet of blue note paper, with ribbon of four colors, red, white, 
pink and blue, in neat bows fastened in the margin of same, opposite 
which Avere appropriate lines in verse, requesting the return of the bows 
he wished, sent the young lady the following: 

My little dear beside the sea, 
Quite often I do think of thee — 
While o'er this page I sigh and think 
A tear falls on this bow of *'pink." 

My dearest one, then don't repine, 
I'll be your loving valentine — 
Asa token that my love is true, 
I'll just return the bow of "blue." 



Within thy lonely breast, fair one, 
Life's many cares may sorely weigh; 

But persevere with faith and love. 
And thou wilt gain thy perfect day. 



Oh, this transitory life 
With its many, many cares, 

Has no balm for mortal wounds 
And no sympathizing tears. 



All for a transient word of praise 
The poet's days are vainly spent, 

Soon his works are all forgotten, , 
Yet ingratitude is never meant. 



POEMS. W\ 



A SWEET OBJECT. 



It lay on the back of the bench 
In its magic beauty, 
A jewel rich and fair ; 
And as my thoughts enlarged 
How I fondly gazed 
On the sweet thing lying there. 

It lay on the back of the bench, 
A mysterious object 
I could not understand ; 
Yet I loved its angel-shape, 
As my passionate gaze 
Sunk to her matchless hand. 



ENDURANCE. 

Every sunbeam has its shadow, 
Every shadow has its sorrow, 

Sorrow that we all must bear; 
Thro' that shadow and that sorrow 
Hope renew'd will bear us onward 

To a home more bright and fair. 



A SNOW COVERED EARTH. 

Would I were a star in the heavens. 

Conscious and having being, 
That I might peep between the parting clouds 

On nature's grand attire — 

A snow-cover'd earth. 



193 POEMS. 

TO FAIR NINA. 

Fair Nina, .your fondest girlhood years 
Have been like youth's enchanting dream, 

Careless and sweet; 
Around your path each sunny hour 
Eoses have budded and violets bloom'd 

Beneath your feet. 

Many bright suns have shown within 
That dewy path which your fond feet 

Did then pursue ; 
'Twas in those sweet and happy hours 
You gather'd in your peaceful heart 

Character true. 

Many have sought and often loved 
Your snowy hand, but all in vain — 

You dreamed of me, 
And I of you— tho' we've never met — 
Those dreams may have a meaning, tho' 

We're both at sea. 



The sweetest rose of life may it ever entwine 
The warm-b(ating heart in that bosom of thine, 
And the lilac that bloom'd in my childhood's hour, 
May it ever make fragrant thy loneliest bower. 



Tliou art fairer to me than all I perceive 

Firm the dawn of the morn till the close of the eve, 

And when the clouds have veiled fair lunar's bright light, 

Still thou art to my heart a perfect delight. 



POEMS. 193 

TO DORA. 

I wonder, as my memory calls 

Me back to other sunny days, 
If she e'er thinks of him who still 

Adores all her winning ways. 

Her dark brown eyes, so pure, sublime, 

With soft and peaceful glow; 
Fain would I live in that lone spark 

That's biirning sw^eet and low. 

Not burning low as a dying spark 

Within a tear-stain'd, dying eye, 
But a holy gleam of gentle love, 

As clear as the noon-day sky, 

I wonder, tho' she is far away, 

If she ever thinks of me, 
And the glances we've exchanged 

While beside the Congaree. 

Oh, sacred eyes, if e'er you gaze 

On these lone words of mine, 
Ijook up, and think of him whose love 

Is traced in every line. 



A WISH. 

'Round thy path may roses cluster, 
And o'er thy head the myrtle twine, 

And ne'er a ray of hope grow dina 
Within that gentle heart of thine. 



194 POEMS. 



TO FLORENCE, LILY AND NONIE. 

My fond sisters, and can I close this feeble work 
Which tho\ perhaps, unknown to fame may be, 

Without here inscribing from my inmost heart 
That ardent love I've always borne for thee. 

When other forms that feigned to stand beside me 
Left me to drift alone on life's cold tide ; 

Thy dear forms with outstretched arms received me, 
And passed adown life's journey by my side. 

Tho' earth's dark clouds may gather 'round my heart, 
And the star of hope grow dim upon its shrine. 

Yet 'mid the shadows that then would sink within me, 
I'd find sweet rest in that true love of thine. 



A WISH. 

On the sunny side of life I trust 
To see your gentle footsteps wend, 

And in those loving words "well done" 
May your peaceful journey end. 



